Mr. Gabriel Bearse was happy. The prominence given to this
statement is not meant to imply that Gabriel was, as a general
rule, unhappy. Quite the contrary; Mr. Bearse's disposition was a
cheerful one and the cares of this world had not rounded his plump
shoulders. But Captain Sam Hunniwell had once said, and Orham
public opinion agreed with him, that Gabe Bearse was never happy
unless he was talking. Now here was Gabriel, not talking, but
walking briskly along the Orham main road, and yet so distinctly
happy that the happiness showed in his gait, his manner and in the
excited glitter of his watery eye. Truly an astonishing condition
of things and tending, one would say, to prove that Captain Sam's
didactic remark, so long locally accepted and quoted as gospel
truth, had a flaw in its wisdom somewhere.
And yet the flaw was but a small one and the explanation simple.
Gabriel was not talking at that moment, it is true, but he was
expecting to talk very soon, to talk a great deal. He had just
come into possession of an item of news which would furnish his
vocal machine gun with ammunition sufficient for wordy volley after
volley. Gabriel was joyfully contemplating peppering all Orham
with that bit of gossip. No wonder he was happy; no wonder he
hurried along the main road like a battery galloping eagerly into
action.
He was on his way to the post office, always the gossip-
sharpshooters' first line trench, when, turning the corner where
Nickerson's Lane enters the main road, he saw something which
caused him to pause, alter his battle-mad walk to a slower one,
then to a saunter, and finally to a halt altogether. This
something was a toy windmill fastened to a white picket fence and
clattering cheerfully as its arms spun in the brisk, pleasant
summer breeze.
The little windmill was one of a dozen, all fastened to the top
rail of that fence and all whirling. Behind the fence, on posts,
were other and larger windmills; behind these, others larger still.
Interspersed among the mills were little wooden sailors swinging
paddles; weather vanes in the shapes of wooden whales, swordfish,
ducks, crows, seagulls; circles of little wooden profile sailboats,
made to chase each other 'round and 'round a central post. All of
these were painted in gay colors, or in black and white, and all
were in motion. The mills spun, the boats sailed 'round and
'round, the sailors did vigorous Indian club exercises with their
paddles. The grass in the little yard and the tall hollyhocks in
the beds at its sides swayed and bowed and nodded. Beyond, seen
over the edge of the bluff and stretching to the horizon, the blue
and white waves leaped and danced and sparkled. As a picture of
movement and color and joyful bustle the scene was inspiring;
children, viewing it for the first time, almost invariably danced
and waved their arms in sympathy. Summer visitors, loitering idly
by, suddenly became fired with the desire to set about doing
something, something energetic.
Gabriel Bearse was not a summer visitor, but a "native," that is,
an all-the-year-round resident of Orham, and, as his fellow natives
would have cheerfully testified, it took much more than windmills
to arouse HIS energy. He had not halted to look at the mills. He
had stopped because the sight of them recalled to his mind the fact
that the maker of these mills was a friend of one of the men most
concerned in his brand new news item. It was possible, barely
possible, that here was an opportunity to learn just a little more,
to obtain an additional clip of cartridges before opening fire on
the crowd at the post office. Certainly it might be worth trying,
particularly as the afternoon mail would not be ready for another
hour, even if the train was on time.
At the rear of the little yard, and situated perhaps fifty feet
from the edge of the high sand bluff leading down precipitously to
the beach, was a shingled building, whitewashed, and with a door,
painted green, and four windows on the side toward the road. A
clamshell walk led from the gate to the doors. Over the door was a
sign, very neatly lettered, as follows: "J. EDGAR W. WINSLOW.
MILLS FOR SALE." In the lot next to that, where the little shop
stood, was a small, old-fashioned story-and-a-half Cape Cod house,
painted a speckless white, with vivid green blinds. The blinds
were shut now, for the house was unoccupied. House and shop and
both yards were neat and clean as a New England kitchen.
Gabriel Bearse, after a moment's reflection, opened the gate in the
picket fence and walked along the clamshell walk to the shop door.
Opening the door, he entered, a bell attached to the top of the
door jingling as he did so. The room which Mr. Bearse entered was
crowded from floor to ceiling, save for a narrow passage, with hit-
or-miss stacks of the wooden toys evidently finished and ready for
shipment. Threading his way between the heaps of sailors, mills,
vanes and boats, Gabriel came to a door evidently leading to
another room. There was a sign tacked to this door, which read,
"PRIVATE," but Mr. Bearse did not let that trouble him. He pushed
the door open.
The second room was evidently the work-shop. There were a circular
saw and a turning lathe, with the needful belts, and a small
electric motor to furnish power. Also there were piles of lumber,
shelves of paint pots and brushes, many shavings and much sawdust.
And, standing beside a dilapidated chair from which he had
evidently risen at the sound of the door bell, with a dripping
paint brush in one hand and a wooden sailor in the other, there was
a man. When he saw who his visitor was he sat down again.
He was a tall man and, as the chair he sat in was a low one and the
heels of his large shoes were hooked over its lower rounds, his
knees and shoulders were close together when he bent over his work.
He was a thin man and his trousers hung about his ankles like a
loose sail on a yard. His hair was thick and plentiful, a brown
sprinkled with gray at the temples. His face was smooth-shaven,
with wrinkles at the corners of the eyes and mouth. He wore
spectacles perched at the very end of his nose, and looked down
over rather than through them as he dipped the brush in the can of
paint beside him on the floor.
"Hello, Shavin's," hailed Mr. Bearse, blithely.
The tall man applied the brush to the nude pine legs of the wooden
sailor. One side of those legs were modestly covered forthwith by
a pair of sky-blue breeches. The artist regarded the breeches
dreamily. Then he said:
"Hello, Gab."
His voice was a drawl, very deliberate, very quiet, rather soft and
pleasant. But Mr. Bearse was not pleased.
"Don't call me that," he snapped.
The brush was again dipped in the paint pot and the rear elevation
of the pine sailor became sky-blue like the other side of him.
Then the tall man asked:
"Call you what?"
"Gab. That's a divil of a name to call anybody. Last time I was
in here Cap'n Sam Hunniwell heard you call me that and I cal'lated
he'd die laughin'. Seemed to cal'late there was somethin'
specially dum funny about it. I don't call it funny. Say,
speakin' of Cap'n Sam, have you heard the news about him?"
He asked the question eagerly, because it was a part of what he
came there to ask. His eagerness was not contagious. The man on
the chair put down the blue brush, took up a fresh one, dipped it
in another paint pot and proceeded to garb another section of his
sailor in a spotless white shirt. Mr. Bearse grew impatient.
"Have you heard the news about Cap'n Sam?" he repeated. "Say,
Shavin's, have you?"
The painting went serenely on, but the painter answered.
"Well, Gab," he drawled, "I--"
"Don't call me Gab, I tell you. 'Tain't my name."
"Sho! Ain't it?"
"You know well enough 'tain't. My name's Gabriel. Call me that--
or Gabe. I don't like to be called out of my name. But say,
Shavin's--"
"Well, Gab, say it."
"Look here, Jed Winslow, do you hear me?"
"Yes, hear you fust rate, Gabe--now."
Mr. Bearse's understanding was not easily penetrated; a hint
usually glanced from it like a piece of soap from a slanting cellar
door, but this time the speaker's tone and the emphasis on the
"now" made a slight dent. Gabriel's eyes opened.
"Huh?" he grunted in astonishment, as if the possibility had never
until that moment occured to him. "Why, say, Jed, don't you like
to be called 'Shavin's'?"
No answer. A blue collar was added to the white shirt of the
sailor.
"Don't you, Jed?" repeated Gabe.
Mr. Winslow's gaze was lifted from his work and his eyes turned
momentarily in the direction of his caller.
"Gabe," he drawled, "did you ever hear about the feller that was
born stone deef and the Doxology?"
"Eh? What-- No, I never heard it."
The eyes turned back to the wooden sailor and Mr. Winslow chose
another brush.
"Neither did he," he observed, and began to whistle what sounded
like a dirge.
Mr. Bearse stared at him for at least a minute. Then he shook his
head.
"Well, by Judas!" he exclaimed. "I--I--I snum if I don't think you
BE crazy, same as some folks say you are! What in the nation has--
has your name got to do with a deef man and the Doxology?"
"Eh? . . . Oh, nothin'."
"Then what did you bust loose and tell me about 'em for? They
wan't any of MY business, was they?"
"No-o. That's why I spoke of 'em."
"What? You spoke of 'em 'cause they wan't any of my business?"
"Ye-es . . . I thought maybe--" He paused, turned the sailor over
in his hand, whistled a few more bars of the dirge and then
finished his sentence. "I thought maybe you might like to ask
questions about 'em," he concluded.
Mr. Bearse stared suspiciously at his companion, swallowed several
times and, between swallows, started to speak, but each time gave
it up. Mr. Winslow appeared quite oblivious of the stare. His
brushes gave the wooden sailor black hair, eyes and brows, and an
engaging crimson smile. When Gabriel did speak it was not
concerning names.
"Say, Jed," he cried, "HAVE you heard about Cap'n Sam Hunniwell?
'Bout his bein' put on the Exemption Board?"
His companion went on whistling, but he nodded.
"Um-hm," grunted Gabe, grudgingly. "I presumed likely you would
hear; he told you himself, I cal'late. Seth Baker said he see him
come in here night afore last and I suppose that's when he told
you. Didn't say nothin' else, did he?" he added, eagerly.
Again Mr. Winslow nodded.
"Did he? Did he? What else did he say?"
The tall man seemed to consider.
"Well," he drawled, at length, "seems to me I remember him sayin'--
sayin'--"
"Yes? Yes? What did he say?"
"Well--er--seems to me he said good night just afore he went home."
The disappointed Gabriel lost patience. "Oh, you DIVILISH fool
head!" he exclaimed, disgustedly. "Look here, Jed Winslow, talk
sense for a minute, if you can, won't you? I've just heard
somethin' that's goin' to make a big row in this town and it's got
to do with Cap'n Sam's bein' app'inted on that Gov'ment Exemption
Board for drafted folks. If you'd heard Phineas Babbitt goin' on
the way I done, I guess likely you'd have been interested."
It was plain that, for the first time since his caller intruded
upon his privacy, the maker of mills and sailors WAS interested.
He did not put down his brush, but he turned his head to look and
listen. Bearse, pleased with this symptom of attention, went on.
"I was just into Phineas' store," he said, "and he was there, so I
had a chance to talk with him. He's been up to Boston and never
got back till this afternoon, so I cal'lated maybe he hadn't heard
about Cap'n Sam's app'intment. And I knew, too, how he does hate
the Cap'n; ain't had nothin' but cuss words and such names for him
ever since Sam done him out of gettin' the postmaster's job.
Pretty mean trick, some folks call it, but--"
Mr. Winslow interrupted; his drawl was a trifle less evident.
"Congressman Taylor asked Sam for the truth regardin' Phineas and a
certain matter," he said. "Sam told the truth, that's all."
"Well, maybe that's so, but does tellin' the truth about folks make
'em love you? I don't know as it does."
Winslow appeared to meditate.
"No-o," he observed, thoughtfully, "I don't suppose you do."
"No, I . . . Eh? What do you mean by that? Look here, Jed
Winslow, if--"
Jed held up a big hand. "There, there, Gabe," he suggested,
mildly. "Let's hear about Sam and Phin Babbitt. What was Phineas
goin' on about when you was in his store?"
Mr. Bearse forgot personal grievance in his eagerness to tell the
story.
"Why," he began, "you see, 'twas like this: 'Twas all on account of
Leander. Leander's been drafted. You know that, of course?"
Jed nodded. Leander Babbitt was the son of Phineas Babbitt,
Orham's dealer in hardware and lumber and a leading political boss.
Between Babbitt, Senior, and Captain Sam Hunniwell, the latter
President of the Orham National Bank and also a vigorous
politician, the dislike had always been strong. Since the affair
of the postmastership it had become, on Babbitt's part, an intense
hatred. During the week just past young Babbitt's name had been
drawn as one of Orham's quota for the new National Army. The
village was still talking of the draft when the news came that
Captain Hunniwell had been selected as a member of the Exemption
Board for the district, the Board which was to hold its sessions at
Ostable and listen to the pleas of those desiring to be excused
from service. Not all of Orham knew this as yet. Jed Winslow had
heard it, from Captain Sam himself. Gabe Bearse had heard it
because he made it his business to hear everything, whether it
concerned him or not--preferably not.
The war had come to Orham with the unbelievable unreality with
which it had come to the great mass of the country. Ever since the
news of the descent of von Kluck's hordes upon devoted Belgium, in
the fall of 1914, the death grapple in Europe had, of course, been
the principal topic of discussion at the post office and around the
whist tables at the Setuckit Club, where ancient and retired
mariners met and pounded their own and each other's knees while
they expressed sulphurous opinions concerning the attitude of the
President and Congress. These opinions were, as a usual thing,
guided by the fact of their holders' allegiance to one or the other
of the great political parties. Captain Sam Hunniwell, a lifelong
and ardent Republican, with a temper as peppery as the chile con
carne upon which, when commander of a steam freighter trading with
Mexico, he had feasted so often--Captain Sam would have hoisted the
Stars and Stripes to the masthead the day the Lusitania sank and
put to sea in a dory, if need be, and armed only with a shotgun, to
avenge that outrage. To hear Captain Sam orate concerning the
neglect of duty of which he considered the United States government
guilty was an experience, interesting or shocking, according to the
drift of one's political or religious creed.
Phineas Babbitt, on the contrary, had at first upheld the policy of
strict neutrality. "What business is it of ours if them furriners
take to slaughterin' themselves?" he wanted to know. He hotly
declared the Lusitania victims plaguey fools who knew what they
were riskin' when they sailed and had got just what was comin' to
'em--that is, he was proclaiming it when Captain Sam heard him;
after that the captain issued a proclamation of his own and was
proceeding to follow words with deeds. The affair ended by mutual
acquaintances leading Captain Sam from the Babbitt Hardware
Company's store, the captain rumbling like a volcano and, to follow
up the simile, still emitting verbal brimstone and molten lava,
while Mr. Babbitt, entrenched behind his counter, with a monkey
wrench in his hand, dared his adversary to lay hands on a law-
abiding citizen.
When the Kaiser and von Tirpitz issued their final ultimatum,
however, and the President called America to arms, Phineas, in
company with others of his breed, appeared to have experienced a
change of heart. At all events he kept his anti-war opinions to
himself and, except that his hatred for the captain was more
virulent than ever since the affair of the postmastership, he found
little fault with the war preparations in the village, the
organizing of a Home Guard, the raising of funds for a new flag and
flagpole and the recruiting meeting in the town hall.
At that meeting a half dozen of Orham's best young fellows had
expressed their desire to fight for Uncle Sam. The Orham band--
minus its first cornet, who was himself one of the volunteers--had
serenaded them at the railway station and the Congregational
minister and Lawyer Poundberry of the Board of Selectmen had made
speeches. Captain Sam Hunniwell, being called upon to say a few
words, had said a few--perhaps, considering the feelings of the
minister and the feminine members of his flock present, it is well
they were not more numerous.
"Good luck to you, boys," said Captain Sam. "I wish to the
Almighty I was young enough to go with you. And say, if you see
that Kaiser anywheres afloat or ashore give him particular merry
hell for me, will you?"
And then, a little later, came the news that the conscription bill
had become a law and that the draft was to be a reality. And with
that news the war itself became a little more real. And, suddenly,
Phineas Babbitt, realizing that his son, Leander, was twenty-five
years old and, therefore, within the limits of the draft age,
became once more an ardent, if a little more careful, conscientious
objector.
He discovered that the war was a profiteering enterprise engineered
by capital and greed for the exploiting of labor and the common
people. Whenever he thought it safe to do so he aired these
opinions and, as there were a few of what Captain Hunniwell called
"yellow-backed swabs" in Orham or its neighborhood, he occasionally
had sympathetic listeners. Phineas, it is only fair to say, had
never heretofore shown any marked interest in labor except to get
as much of it for as little money as possible. If his son,
Leander, shared his father's opinions, he did not express them. In
fact he said very little, working steadily in the store all day and
appearing to have something on his mind. Most people liked
Leander.
Then came the draft and Leander was drafted. He said very little
about it, but his father said a great deal. The boy should not go;
the affair was an outrage. Leander wasn't strong, anyway; besides,
wasn't he his father's principal support? He couldn't be spared,
that's all there was about it, and he shouldn't be. There was
going to be an Exemption Board, wasn't there? All right--just wait
until he, Phineas, went before that board. He hadn't been in
politics all these years for nothin'. Sam Hunniwell hadn't got all
the pull there was in the county.
And then Captain Sam was appointed a member of that very board. He
had dropped in at the windmill shop the very evening when he
decided to accept and told Jed Winslow all about it. There never
were two people more unlike than Sam Hunniwell and Jed Winslow, but
they had been fast friends since boyhood. Jed knew that Phineas
Babbitt had been on a trip to Boston and, therefore, had not heard
of the captain's appointment. Now, according to Gabriel Bearse, he
had returned and had heard of it, and according to Bearse's excited
statement he had "gone on" about it.
"Leander's been drafted," repeated Gabe. "And that was bad enough
for Phineas, he bein' down on the war, anyhow. But he's been
cal'latin', I cal'late, to use his political pull to get Leander
exempted off. Nine boards out of ten, if they'd had a man from
Orham on 'em, would have gone by what that man said in a case like
Leander's. And Phineas, he was movin' heavens and earth to get one
of his friends put on as the right Orham man. And now--NOW, by
godfreys domino, they've put on the ONE man that Phin can't
influence, that hates Phin worse than a cat hates a swim. Oh, you
ought to heard Phineas go on when I told him. He'd just got off
the train, as you might say, so nobody'd had a chance to tell him.
I was the fust one, you see. So--"
"Was Leander there?"
"No, he wan't. There wan't nobody in the store but Susie Ellis,
that keeps the books there now, and Abner Burgess's boy, that runs
errands and waits on folks when everybody else is busy. That was a
funny thing, too--that about Leander's not bein' there. Susie said
she hadn't seen him since just after breakfast time, half past
seven o'clock or so, and when she telephoned the Babbitt house it
turned out he hadn't been there, neither. Had his breakfast and
went out, he did, and that's all his step-ma knew about him. But
Phineas, he. . . . Eh? Ain't that the bell? Customer, I presume
likely. Want me to go see who 'tis, Shavin's--Jed, I mean?"