The Smalley residence, where Mrs. Luretta Smalley, relict of the
late Zenas T., accommodated a few "paying guests," was nearly a
mile from the windmill shop and on the Orham "lower road." Mr.
Winslow and his new acquaintance took the short cuts, through by-
paths and across fields, and the young lady appeared to have
thoroughly recovered from her misgivings concerning the dark--in
reality it was scarcely dusk--and her doubts concerning her ability
to carry the "heavy" swordfish without help. At all events she
insisted upon carrying it alone, telling her companion that she
thought perhaps he had better not touch it as it was so very, very
brittle and might get broken, and consoling him by offering to
permit him to carry Petunia, which fragrant appellation, it
appeared, was the name of the doll.
"I named her Petunia after a flower," she explained. "I think she
looks like a flower, don't you?"
If she did it was a wilted one. However, Miss Armstrong did not
wait for comment on the part of her escort, but chatted straight
on. Jed learned that her mother's name was Mrs. Ruth Phillips
Armstrong. "It used to be Mrs. Seymour Armstrong, but it isn't
now, because Papa's name was Doctor Seymour Armstrong and he died,
you know." And they lived in a central Connecticut city, but
perhaps they weren't going to live there any more because Mamma had
sold the house and didn't know exactly WHAT to do. And they had
been in Orham ever since before the Fourth of July, and they liked
it EVER so much, it was so quaint and--and "franteek"--
Jed interrupted here. "So quaint and what?" he demanded.
"Franteek." Miss Barbara herself seemed a little doubtful of the
word. At any rate Mamma said it was something like that, and it
meant they liked it anyway. So Mr. Winslow was left to ponder
whether "antique" or "unique" was intended and to follow his train
of thought wherever it chanced to lead him, while the child
prattled on. They came in sight of the Smalley front gate and Jed
came out of his walking trance to hear her say:
"Anyway, we like it all but the sal'ratus biscuits and the coffee
and THEY are dreadful. Mamma thinks it's made of chickenry--the
coffee, I mean."
At the gate Jed's "queerness," or shyness, came upon him. The idea
of meeting Mrs. Armstrong or even the members of the Smalley family
he shrank from. Barbara invited him to come in, but he refused
even to accompany her to the door.
"I'll just run along now," he said, hurriedly. "Good night."
The child put out her hand. "Good night," she said. "Thank you
very much for helping me carry the fish home. I'm coming to see
you again some day."
She scampered up the walk. Jed, waiting in the shadow of the lilac
bushes by the fence, saw her rattle the latch of the door, saw the
door open and the child caught up in the arms of a woman, who
cried: "Oh, Babbie, dear, where HAVE you been? Mamma was SO
frightened!"
He smiled over the memory of the little girl's visit more than once
that evening. He was very fond of children and their society did
not embarrass or annoy him as did the company of most grown-ups--
strangers, that is. He remembered portions of Miss Barbara's
conversation and determined to repeat them to Captain Sam
Hunniwell, the next time the latter called.
And that next time was the following forenoon. Captain Sam, on the
way to his office at the bank, stopped his car at the edge of the
sidewalk and came into the shop. Jed, having finished painting
wooden sailors for the present, was boxing an assorted collection
of mills and vanes to be sent South, for a certain demand for
"Winslow mills" was developing at the winter as well as the summer
resorts. It was far from winter yet, but this purchaser was
forehanded.
"Hello, Jed," hailed the captain, "busy as usual. You've got the
busy bee a mile astern so far as real hustlin' is concerned."
Jed took a nail from the half dozen held between his lips and
applied its point to the box top. His sentences for the next few
minutes were mumbled between nails and punctuated with blows of the
hammer.
"The busy bee," he mumbled, "can sting other folks. He don't get
stung much himself. Collectin' honey's easier, I cal'late, than
collectin' money."
Captain Sam grunted. "Are you stung again?" he demanded. "Who did
it this time?"
Jed pointed with the hammer to an envelope lying on a pile of
wooden crows. The captain took up the envelope and inspected its
contents.
"'We regret to inform you,' he read aloud, 'that the Funny Novelty
Company of this town went into bankruptcy a month ago.
"'JOHN HOLWAY.'"
"Humph!" he sniffed. "That's short and sweet. Owed you somethin',
I presume likely?"
Jed nodded. "Seventeen dollars and three cents," he admitted,
between the remaining nails.
"Sho! Well, if you could get the seventeen dollars you'd throw off
the three cents, wouldn't you?"
"No-o."
"You wouldn't? Why not?"
Jed pried a crookedly driven nail out again and substituted a fresh
one.
"Can't afford to," he drawled. "That's the part I'll probably
get."
"Guess you're right. Who's this John Holway?"
"Eh. . . . Why, when he ordered the mills of me last summer he was
president of the Funny Novelty Company up there to Manchester."
"Good Lord! Well, I admire his nerve. How did you come to sell
these--er--Funny folks, in the first place?"
Mr. Winslow looked surprised.
"Why, they wrote and sent an order," he replied.
"Did, eh? And you didn't think of lookin' 'em up to see whether
they was good for anything or good for nothin'? Just sailed in and
hurried off the stuff, I presume likely?"
Jed nodded. "Why--why, yes, of course," he said. "You see, they
said they wanted it right away."
His friend groaned. "Gracious king!" he exclaimed. "How many
times have I told you to let me look up credits for you when you
get an order from a stranger? Well, there's no use talkin' to you.
Give me this letter. I'll see what I can squeeze out of your Funny
friend. . . . But, say," he added, "I can't stop but a minute, and
I ran in to ask you if you'd changed your mind about rentin' the
old house here. If you have, I believe I've got a good tenant for
you."
Jed looked troubled. He laid down the hammer and took the last
nail from his mouth.
"Now--now, Sam," he began, "you know--"
"Oh, I know you've set your thick head dead against rentin' it at
all, but that's silly, as I've told you a thousand times. The
house is empty and it doesn't do any house good to stay empty.
Course if 'twas anybody but you, Jed Winslow, you'd live in it
yourself instead of campin' out in this shack here."
Jed sat down on the box he had just nailed and, taking one long leg
between his big hands, pulled its knee up until he could have
rested his chin upon it without much inconvenience.
"I know, Sam," he drawled gravely, "but that's the trouble--I ain't
been anybody but me for forty-five years."
The captain smiled, in spite of his impatience. "And you won't be
anybody else for the next forty-five," he said, "I know that. But
all the same, bein' a practical, more or less sane man myself, it
makes me nervous to see a nice, attractive, comfortable little
house standin' idle while the feller that owns it eats and sleeps
in a two-by-four sawmill, so to speak. And, not only that, but
won't let anybody else live in the house, either. I call that a
dog in the manger business, and crazy besides."
The big foot at the end of the long leg swung slowly back and
forth. Mr. Winslow looked absently at the roof.
"DON'T look like that!" snapped Captain Sam. "Come out of it!
Wake up! It always gives me the fidgets to see you settin' gapin'
at nothin'. What are you daydreamin' about now, eh?"
Jed turned and gazed over his spectacles.
"I was thinkin'," he observed, "that most likely that dog himself
was crazy. If he wasn't he wouldn't have got into the manger. I
never saw a dog that wanted to climb into a manger, did you, Sam?"
"Oh, confound the manger and the dog, too! Look here, Jed; if I
found you a good tenant would you rent 'em that house of yours?"
Jed looked more troubled than ever.
"Sam," he began, "you know I'd do 'most anything to oblige you,
but--"
"Oblige me! This ain't to oblige me. It's to oblige you."
"Oh, then I won't do it."
"Well, then, 'tis to oblige me. It'll oblige me to have you show
some sense. Come on, Jed. These people I've got in mind are nice
people. They want to find a little house and they've come to me at
the bank for advice about findin' it. It's a chance for you, a
real chance."
Jed rocked back and forth. He looked genuinely worried.
"Who are they?" he asked, after a moment
"Can't name any names yet."
Another period of reflection. Then: "City folks or Orham folks?"
inquired Mr. Winslow.
"City folks."
Some of the worried look disappeared. Jed was plainly relieved and
more hopeful.
"Oh, then they won't want it," he declared. "City folks want to
hire houses in the spring, not along as late in the summer as
this."
"These people do. They're thinkin' of livin' here in Orham all the
year round. It's a first-rate chance for you, Jed. Course, I know
you don't really need the money, perhaps, but--well, to be real
honest, I want these folks to stay in Orham--they're the kind of
folks the town needs--and I want 'em contented. I think they would
be contented in your house. You let those Davidsons from Chicago
have the place that summer, but you've never let anybody so much as
consider it since. What's the real reason? You've told me as much
as a dozen, but I'll bet anything you've never told me the real
one. 'Twas somethin' the Davidsons did you didn't like--but what?"
Jed's rocking back and forth on the box became almost energetic and
his troubled expression more than ever apparent.
"Now--now, Sam," he begged, "I've told you all about that ever and
ever so many times. There wasn't anything, really."
"There was, too. What was it?"
Jed suffered in silence for two or three minutes.
"What was the real reason? Out with it," persisted Captain
Hunniwell.
"Well--well, 'twas--'twas--" desperately, "'twas the squeakin' and--
and squealin'."
"Squeakin' and squealin'? Gracious king! What are you talkin'
about?"
"Why--the--the mills, you know. The mills and vanes outside on--on
the posts and the fence. They squeaked and--and sometimes they
squealed awful. And he didn't like it."
"Who didn't?"
"Colonel Davidson. He said they'd got to stop makin' that noise
and I said I'd oil 'em every day. And--and I forgot it."
"Yes--well, I ain't surprised to death, exactly. What then?"
"Well--well, you see, they were squealin' worse than usual one
mornin' and Colonel Davidson he came in here and--and I remembered
I hadn't oiled 'em for three days. And I--I said how horrible the
squealin' was and that I'd oil 'em right away and--and--"
"Well, go on! go on!"
"And when I went out to do it there wasn't any wind and the mills
wasn't goin' at all. You see, 'twas his oldest daughter takin' her
singin' lessons in the house with the window open."
Captain Sam put back his head and shouted. Jed looked sadly at the
floor. When the captain could speak he asked:
"And you mean to tell me that was the reason you wouldn't let the
house again?"
"Er--why, yes."
"I know better. You didn't have any row with the Davidsons. You
couldn't row with anybody, anyhow; and besides the Colonel himself
told me they would have taken the house the very next summer but
you wouldn't rent it to 'em. And you mean to say that yarn you've
just spun was the reason?"
"Why--yes."
"Rubbish! You've told me a dozen reasons afore, but I'm bound to
say this is the most foolish yet. All right, keep the real reason
to yourself, then. But I tell you what I'm goin' to do to get even
with you: I'm goin' to send these folks down to look at your house
and I shan't tell you who they are or when they're comin'."
The knee slipped down from Mr. Winslow's grasp and his foot struck
the floor with a crash. He made a frantic clutch at his friend's
arm.
"Oh, now, Sam," he cried, in horror, "don't do that! Don't talk
so! You don't mean it! Come here! . . . Sam!"
But the captain was at the door. "You bet I mean it!" he declared.
"Keep your weather eye peeled, Jed. They'll be comin' 'most any
time now. And if you have ANY sense you'll let 'em the house. So
long!"
He drove away in his little car. Jed Winslow, left standing in the
shop doorway, staring after him, groaned in anxious foreboding.
He groaned a good many times during the next few hours. Each time
the bell rang announcing the arrival of a visitor he rose to answer
it perfectly sure that here were the would-be tenants whom his
friend, in the mistaken kindness of his heart, was sending to him.
Not that he had the slightest idea of renting his old home, but he
dreaded the ordeal of refusing. In fact he was not sure that he
could refuse, not sure that he could invent a believable excuse for
doing so. Another person would not have sought excuses, would have
declared simply that the property was not for rent, but Jed Winslow
was not that other person; he was himself, and ordinary methods of
procedure were not his.
Two or three groups of customers came in, purchased and departed.
Captain Jerry Burgess dropped in to bring the Winslow mail, which
in this case consisted of an order, a bill and a circular setting
forth the transcendent healing qualities of African Balm, the Foe
of Rheumatism. Mr. Bearse happened in to discuss the great news of
the proposed aviation camp and to tell with gusto and detail how
Phineas Babbitt had met Captain Hunniwell "right square in front of
the bank" and had not spoken to him. "No, sir, never said a word
to him no more'n if he wan't there. What do you think of that?
And they say Leander wrote his dad that he thought he was goin' to
like soldierin' fust-rate, and Mrs. Sarah Mary Babbitt she told
Melissa Busteed that her husband's language when he read that was
somethin' sinful. She said she never was more thankful that they
had lightnin' rods on the roof, 'cause such talk as that was enough
to fetch down fire from heaven."