After this, having broken the ice, Jed, as Captain Sam Hunniwell
might have expressed it, "kept the channel clear." When he stopped
at the kitchen door of his tenants' house he no longer invariably
refused to come in and sit down. When he inquired if Mrs.
Armstrong had any errands to be done he also asked if there were
any chores he might help out with. When the old clock--a genuine
Seth Willard--on the wall of the living-room refused to go, he came
in, sat down, took the refractory timepiece in his arms and, after
an hour of what he called "putterin' and jackleggin'," hung it up
again apparently in as good order as ever. During the process he
whistled a little, sang a hymn or two, and talked with Barbara, who
found the conversation a trifle unsatisfactory.
"He hardly EVER finished what he was going to say," she confided to
her mother afterward. "He'd start to tell me a story and just as
he got to the most interesting part something about the clock would
seem to--you know--trouble him and he'd stop and, when he began
again, he'd be singing instead of talking. I asked him what made
him do it and he said he cal'lated his works must be loose and
every once in a while his speaking trumpet fell down into his music
box. Isn't he a funny man, Mamma?"
"He is indeed, Babbie."
"Yes. Petunia and I think he's--he's perfectly scrushe-aking.
'Twas awful nice of him to fix our clock, wasn't it, Mamma."
"Yes, dear."
"Yes. And I know why he did it; he told me. 'Twas on Petunia's
account. He said not to let her know it but he'd taken
consider'ble of a shine to her. I think he's taken a shine to me,
don't you, Mamma?"
"I'm sure of it."
"So am I. And I 'most guess he's taken one to you, too. Anyhow he
watches you such a lot and notices so many things. He asked me to-
day if you had been crying. I said no. You hadn't, had you,
Mamma?"
Mrs. Armstrong evaded the question by changing the subject. She
decided she must be more careful in hiding her feelings when her
landlord was about. She had had no idea that he could be so
observing; certainly he did not look it.
But her resolution was a little late. Jed had made up his mind
that something was troubling his fair tenant. Again and again, now
that he was coming to know her better and better, he had noticed
the worn, anxious look on her face, and once before the day of the
clock repairing he had seen her when it seemed to him that she had
been crying. He did not mention his observations or inferences to
any one, even Captain Sam, but he was sure he was right. Mrs.
Armstrong was worried and anxious and he did not like the idea. He
wished he might help her, but of course he could not. Another man,
a normal man, one not looked upon by a portion of the community as
"town crank," might have been able to help, might have known how to
offer his services and perhaps have them accepted, but not he, not
Jedidah Edgar Wilfred Winslow. But he wished he could. She had
asked him to consider her a real friend, and to Jed, who had so
few, a friend was a possession holy and precious.
Meanwhile the war was tightening its grip upon Orham as upon every
city, town and hamlet in the land. At first it had been a thing to
read about in the papers, to cheer for, to keep the flags flying.
But it had been far off, unreal. Then came the volunteering, and
after that the draft, and the reality drew a little nearer. Work
upon the aviation camp at East Harniss had actually begun. The
office buildings were up and the sheds for the workmen. They were
erecting frames for the barracks, so Gabriel Bearse reported. The
sight of a uniform in Orham streets was no longer such a novelty as
to bring the population, old and young, to doors and windows. Miss
Maud Hunniwell laughingly confided to Jed that she was beginning to
have hopes, real hopes, of seeing genuine gold lace some day soon.
Captain Sam, her father, was busy. Sessions of the Exemption Board
were not quite as frequent as at first, but the captain declared
them frequent enough. And volunteering went on steadily here and
there among young blood which, having drawn a low number in the
draft, was too impatient for active service to wait its turn.
Gustavus Howes, bookkeeper at the bank, was one example. Captain
Sam told Jed about it on one of his calls.
"Yep," he said, "Gus has gone, cleared out yesterday afternoon.
Goin' to one of the trainin' camps to try to learn to be an
officer. Eh? What did I say to him? Why, I couldn't say nothin',
could I, but 'Hurrah' and 'God bless you'? But it's leavin' a bad
hole in the bank just the same."
Jed asked if the bank had any one in view to fill that hole.
Captain Sam looked doubtful.
"Well," he replied, "we've got somebody in view that would like to
try and fill it. Barzilla Small was in to see me yesterday
afternoon and he's sartin that his boy Luther--Lute, everybody
calls him--is just the one for the place. He's been to work up in
Fall River in a bank, so Barzilla says; that would mean he must
have had some experience. Whether he'll do or not I don't know,
but he's about the only candidate in sight, these war times. What
do you think of him, Jed?"
Jed rubbed his chin. "To fill Gus Howes' place?" he asked.
"Yes, of course. Didn't think I was figgerin' on makin' him
President of the United States, did you?"
"Hum! . . . W-e-e-ll. . . . One time when I was a little shaver,
Sam, down to the fishhouse, I tried on a pair of Cap'n Jabe Kelly's
rubber boots. You remember Cap'n Jabe, Sam, of course. Do you
remember his feet?"
The captain chuckled. "My dad used to say Jabe's feet reminded him
of a couple of chicken-halibut."
"Um-hm. . . . Well, I tried on his boots and started to walk
across the wharf in em. . . ."
"Well, what of it? Gracious king! hurry up. What happened?"
"Eh? . . . Oh, nothin' much, only seemed to me I'd had half of my
walk afore those boots began to move."
Captain Hunniwell enjoyed the story hugely. It was not until his
laugh had died away to a chuckle that its application to the bank
situation dawned upon him.
"Umph!" he grunted. "I see. You cal'late that Lute Small will
fill Gus Howes' job about the way you filled those boots, eh? You
may be right, shouldn't wonder if you was, but we've got to have
somebody and we've got to have him now. So I guess likely we'll
let Lute sign on and wait till later to find out whether he's an
able seaman or a--a--"
He hesitated, groping for a simile. Mr. Winslow supplied one.
"Or a leak," he suggested.
"Yes, that's it. Say, have you heard anything from Leander Babbitt
lately?"
"No, nothin' more than Gab Bearse was reelin' off last time he was
in here. How is Phin Babbitt? Does he speak to you yet?"
"Not a word. But the looks he gives me when we meet would sour
milk. He's dead sartin that I had somethin' to do with his boy's
volunteerin' and he'll never forgive me for it. He's the best hand
at unforgivin' I ever saw. No, no! Wonder what he'd say if he
knew 'twas you, Jed, that was really responsible?"
Jed shook his head, but made no reply. His friend was at the door.
"Any money to take to the bank?" he inquired. "Oh, no, I took what
you had yesterday, didn't I? Any errands you want done over to
Harniss? Maud and I are goin' over there in the car this
afternoon."
Jed seemed to reflect. "No-o," he said; "no, I guess not. . . .
Why, yes, I don't know but there is, though. If you see one of
those things the soldiers put on in the trenches I'd wish you'd buy
it for me. You know what I mean--a gas mask."
"A gas mask! Gracious king! What on earth?"
Jed sighed. "'Twould be consider'ble protection when Gabe Bearse
dropped in and started talkin'," he drawled, solemnly.
October came in clear and fine and on a Saturday in that month Jed
and Barbara went on their long anticipated picnic to the aviation
camp at East Harniss. The affair was one which they had planned
together. Barbara, having heard much concerning aviation during
her days of playing and listening in the windmill shop, had asked
questions. She wished to know what an aviation was. Jed had
explained, whereupon his young visitor expressed a wish to go and
see for herself. "Couldn't you take Petunia and me some time, Mr.
Winslow?" she asked.
"Guess maybe so," was the reply, "provided I don't forget it, same
as you forget about not callin' me Mr. Winslow."
"Oh, I'm so sorry. Petunia ought to have reminded me. Can't you
take me some time, Uncle Jed?"
He had insisted upon her dropping the "Mr." in addressing him.
"Your ma's goin' to call me Jed," he told her; "that is to say, I
hope she is, and you might just as well. I always answer fairly
prompt whenever anybody says 'Jed,' 'cause I'm used to it. When
they say 'Mr. Winslow' I have to stop and think a week afore I
remember who they mean."
But Barbara, having consulted her mother, refused to address her
friend as "Jed." "Mamma says it wouldn't be respect--respectaful,"
she said. "And I don't think it would myself. You see, you're
older than I am," she added.
Jed nodded gravely. "I don't know but I am, a little, now you
remind me of it," he admitted. "Well, I tell you--call me 'Uncle
Jed.' That's got a handle to it but it ain't so much like the
handle to an ice pitcher as Mister is. 'Uncle Jed' 'll do, won't
it?"
Barbara pondered. "Why," she said, doubtfully, "you aren't my
uncle, really. If you were you'd be Mamma's brother, like--like
Uncle Charlie, you know."
It was the second time she had mentioned "Uncle Charlie." Jed had
never heard Mrs. Armstrong speak of having a brother, and he
wondered vaguely why. However, he did not wonder long on this
particular occasion.
"Humph!" he grunted. "Well, let's see. I tell you: I'll be your
step-uncle. That'll do, won't it? You've heard of step-fathers?
Um-hm. Well, they ain't real fathers, and a step-uncle ain't a
real uncle. Now you think that over and see if that won't fix it
first-rate."
The child thought it over. "And shall I call you 'Step-Uncle
Jed'?" she asked.
"Eh? . . . Um. . . . No-o, I guess I wouldn't. I'm only a back
step-uncle, anyway--I always come to the back steps of your house,
you know--so I wouldn't say anything about the step part. You ask
your ma and see what she says."
So Barbara asked and reported as follows:
"She says I may call you 'Uncle Jed' when it's just you and I
together," she said. "But when other people are around she thinks
'Mr. Winslow' would be more respectaful."
It was settled on that basis.
"Can't you take me to the aviation place sometime, Uncle Jed?"
asked Barbara.
Jed thought he could, if he could borrow a boat somewhere and Mrs.
Armstrong was willing that Barbara should go with him. Both
permission and the boat were obtained, the former with little
difficulty, after Mrs. Armstrong had made inquiries concerning Mr.
Winslow's skill in handling a boat, the latter with more. At last
Captain Perez Ryder, being diplomatically approached, told Jed he
might use his eighteen foot power dory for a day, the only cost
being that entailed by purchase of the necessary oil and gasoline.
It was a beautiful morning when they started on their six mile
sail, or "chug," as Jed called it. Mrs. Armstrong had put up a
lunch for them, and Jed had a bucket of clams, a kettle, a pail of
milk, some crackers, onions and salt pork, the ingredients of a
possible chowder.
"Little mite late for 'longshore chowder picnics, ma'am," he said,
"but it's a westerly wind and I cal'late 'twill be pretty balmy in
the lee of the pines. Soon's it gets any ways chilly we'll be
startin' home. Wish you were goin' along, too."
Mrs. Armstrong smiled and said she wished it had been possible for
her to go, but it was not. She looked pale that morning, so it
seemed to Jed, and when she smiled it was with an obvious effort.
"You're not going without locking your kitchen door, are you, Mr.
Jed?" she asked.
Jed looked at her and at the door.
"Why," he observed, "I ain't locked that door, have I! I locked
the front one, the one to the shop, though. Did you see the sign I
tacked on the outside of it?"
"No, I didn't."
"I didn't know but you might have. I put on it: 'Closed for the
day. Inquire at Abijah Thompson's.' You see," he added, his eye
twinkling ever so little, "'Bije Thompson lives in the last house
in the village, two mile or more over to the west'ard."
"He does! Then why in the world did you tell people to inquire
there?"
"Oh, if I didn't they'd be botherin' you, probably, and I didn't
want 'em doin' that. If they want me enough to travel way over to
'Bije's they'll come back here to-morrow, I shouldn't wonder. I
guess likely they'd have to; 'Bije don't know anything about me."
He rubbed his chin and then added:
"Maybe 'twould be a good notion to lock that kitchen door."
They were standing at the edge of the bluff. He sauntered over to
the kitchen, closed the door, and then, opening the window beside
it, reached in through that window and turned the key in the lock
of the door. Leaving the key in that lock and the window still
open, he came sauntering back again.
"There," he drawled, "I guess everything's safe enough now."
Mrs. Armstrong regarded him in amused wonder. "Do you usually lock
your door on the inside in that way?" she asked.
"Eh? . . . Oh, yes'm. If I locked it on the outside I'd have to
take the key with me, and I'm such an absent-minded dumb-head, I'd
be pretty sure to lose it. Come on, Babbie. All aboard!"