The pity which Jed felt for Phineas Babbitt caused him to keep
silent concerning his Thanksgiving evening interview with the
hardware dealer. At first he was inclined to tell Major Grover of
Babbitt's expressions concerning the war and his son's enlistment.
After reflection, however, he decided not to do so. The Winslow
charity was wide enough to cover a multitude of other people's sins
and it covered those of Phineas. The latter was to be pitied; as
to fearing him, as a consequence of his threat to "get square," Jed
never thought of such a thing. If he felt any anxiety at all in
the matter it was a trifling uneasiness because his friends, the
Hunniwells and the Armstrongs, were included in the threat. But he
was inclined to consider Mr. Babbitt's wrath as he had once
estimated the speech of a certain Ostable candidate for political
office, to be "like a tumbler of plain sody water, mostly fizz and
froth and nothin' very substantial or fillin'." He did not tell
Grover of the interview in the shop; he told no one, not even Ruth
Armstrong.
The--to him, at least--delightful friendship and intimacy between
himself and his friends and tenants continued. He and Charlie
Phillips came to know each other better and better. Charles was
now almost as confidential concerning his personal affairs as his
sister had been and continued to be.
"It's surprising how I come in here and tell you all my private
business, Jed," he said, laughing. "I don't go about shouting my
joys and troubles in everybody's ear like this. Why do I do it to
you?"
Jed stopped a dismal whistle in the middle of a bar.
"W-e-e-ll," he drawled, "I don't know. When I was a young-one I
used to like to holler out back of Uncle Laban Ryder's barn so's to
hear the echo. When you say so and so, Charlie, I generally agree
with you. Maybe you come here to get an echo; eh?"
Phillips laughed. "You're not fair to yourself," he said. "I
generally find when the echo in here says no after I've said yes it
pays me to pay attention to it. Sis says the same thing about you,
Jed."
Jed made no comment, but his eyes shone. Charles went on.
"Don't you get tired of hearing the story of my life?" he asked.
"I--"
He stopped short and the smile faded from his lips. Jed knew why.
The story of his life was just what he had not told, what he could
not tell.
As January slid icily into February Mr. Gabriel Bearse became an
unusually busy person. There were so many things to talk about.
Among these was one morsel which Gabe rolled succulently beneath
his tongue. Charles Phillips, "'cordin' to everybody's tell," was
keeping company with Maud Hunniwell.
"There ain't no doubt of it," declared Mr. Bearse. "All hands is
talkin' about it. Looks's if Cap'n Sam would have a son-in-law on
his hands pretty soon. How do you cal'late he'd like the idea,
Shavin's?"
Jed squinted along the edge of the board he was planing. He made
no reply. Gabe tried again.
"How do you cal'late Cap'n Sam'll like the notion of his pet
daughter takin' up with another man?" he queried. Jed was still
mute. His caller lost patience.
"Say, what ails you?" he demanded. "Can't you say nothin'?"
Mr. Winslow put down the board and took up another.
"Ye-es," he drawled.
"Then why don't you, for thunder sakes?"
"Eh? . . . Um. . . Oh, I did."
"Did what?"
"Say nothin'."
"Oh, you divilish idiot! Stop tryin' to be funny. I asked you how
you thought Cap'n Sam would take the notion of Maud's havin' a
steady beau? She's had a good many after her, but looks as if she
was stuck on this one for keeps."
Jed sighed and looked over his spectacles at Mr. Bearse. The
latter grew uneasy under the scrutiny.
"What in time are you lookin' at me like that for?" he asked,
pettishly.
The windmill maker sighed again. "Why--er--Gab," he drawled, "I
was just thinkin' likely YOU might be stuck for keeps."
"Eh? Stuck? What are you talkin' about?"
"Stuck on that box you're sittin' on. I had the glue pot standin'
on that box just afore you came in and . . . er . . . it leaks
consider'ble."
Mr. Bearse raspingly separated his nether garment from the top of
the box and departed, expressing profane opinions. Jed's lips
twitched for an instant, then he puckered them and began to
whistle.
But, although he had refused to discuss the matter with Gabriel
Bearse, he realized that there was a strong element of probability
in the latter's surmise. It certainly did look as if the spoiled
daughter of Orham's bank president had lost her heart to her
father's newest employee. Maud had had many admirers; some very
earnest and lovelorn swains had hopefully climbed the Hunniwell
front steps only to sorrowfully descend them again. Miss Melissa
Busteed and other local scandal scavengers had tartly classified
the young lady as the "worst little flirt on the whole Cape," which
was not true. But Maud was pretty and vivacious and she was not
averse to the society and adoration of the male sex in general,
although she had never until now shown symptoms of preference for
an individual. But Charlie Phillips had come and seen and, judging
by appearances, conquered.
Since the Thanksgiving dinner the young man had been a frequent
visitor at the Hunniwell home. Maud was musical, she played well
and had a pleasing voice. Charles' baritone was unusually good.
So on many evenings Captain Sam's front parlor rang with melody,
while the captain smoked in the big rocker and listened admiringly
and gazed dotingly. At the moving-picture theater on Wednesday and
Saturday evenings Orham nudged and winked when two Hunniwells and a
Phillips came down the aisle. Even at the Congregational church,
where Maud sang in the choir, the young bank clerk was beginning to
be a fairly constant attendant. Captain Eri Hedge declared that
that settled it.
"When a young feller who ain't been to meetin' for land knows how
long," observed Captain Eri, "all of a sudden begins showin' up
every Sunday reg'lar as clockwork, you can make up your mind it's
owin' to one of two reasons--either he's got religion or a girl.
In this case there ain't any revival in town, so--"
And the captain waved his hand.
Jed was not blind and he had seen, perhaps sooner than any one
else, the possibilities in the case. And what he saw distressed
him greatly. Captain Sam Hunniwell was his life-long friend. Maud
had been his pet since her babyhood; she and he had had many
confidential chats together, over troubles at school, over petty
disagreements with her father, over all sorts of minor troubles and
joys. Captain Sam had mentioned to him, more than once, the
probability of his daughter's falling in love and marrying some
time or other, but they both had treated the idea as vague and far
off, almost as a joke.
And now it was no longer far off, the falling in love at least.
And as for its being a joke--Jed shuddered at the thought. He was
very fond of Charlie Phillips; he had made up his mind at first to
like him because he was Ruth's brother, but now he liked him for
himself. And, had things been other than as they were, he could
think of no one to whom he had rather see Maud Hunniwell married.
In fact, had Captain Hunniwell known the young man's record, of his
slip and its punishment, Jed would have been quite content to see
the latter become Maud's husband. A term in prison, especially
when, as in this case, he believed it to be an unwarranted
punishment, would have counted for nothing in the unworldly mind of
the windmill maker. But Captain Sam did not know. He was
tremendously proud of his daughter; in his estimation no man would
have been quite good enough for her. What would he say when he
learned? What would Maud say when she learned? for it was almost
certain that Charles had not told her. These were some of the
questions which weighed upon the simple soul of Jedidah Edgar
Wilfred Winslow.
And heavier still there weighed the thought of Ruth Armstrong. He
had given her his word not to mention her brother's secret to a
soul, not even to him. And yet, some day or other, as sure and
certain as the daily flowing and ebbing of the tides, that secret
would become known. Some day Captain Sam Hunniwell would learn it;
some day Maud would learn it. Better, far better, that they
learned it before marriage, or even before the public announcement
of their engagement--always provided there was to be such an
engagement. In fact, were it not for Ruth herself, no
consideration for Charles' feelings would have prevented Jed's
taking the matter up with the young man and warning him that,
unless he made a clean breast to the captain and Maud, he--Jed--
would do it for him. The happiness of two such friends should not
be jeopardized if he could prevent it.
But there was Ruth. She, not her brother, was primarily
responsible for obtaining for him the bank position and obtaining
it under fake pretenses. And she, according to her own confession
to Jed, had urged upon Charles the importance of telling no one.
Jed himself would have known nothing, would have had only a vague,
indefinite suspicion, had she not taken him into her confidence.
And to him that confidence was precious, sacred. If Charlie's
secret became known, it was not he alone who would suffer; Ruth,
too, would be disgraced. She and Babbie might have to leave Orham,
might have to go out of his life forever.
No wonder that, as the days passed, and Gabe Bearse's comments and
those of Captain Eri Hedge were echoed and reasserted by the
majority of Orham tongues, Jed Winslow's worry and foreboding
increased. He watched Charlie Phillips go whistling out of the
yard after supper, and sighed as he saw him turn up the road in the
direction of the Hunniwell home. He watched Maud's face when he
met her and, although the young lady was in better spirits and
prettier than he had ever seen her, these very facts made him
miserable, because he accepted them as proofs that the situation
was as he feared. He watched Ruth's face also and there, too, he
saw, or fancied that he saw, a growing anxiety. She had been very
well; her spirits, like Maud's, had been light; she had seemed
younger and so much happier than when he and she first met. The
little Winslow house was no longer so quiet, with no sound of
voices except those of Barbara and her mother. There were Red
Cross sewing meetings there occasionally, and callers came. Major
Grover was one of the latter. The major's errands in Orham were
more numerous than they had been, and his trips thither much more
frequent, in consequence. And whenever he came he made it a point
to drop in, usually at the windmill shop first, and then upon
Babbie at the house. Sometimes he brought her home from school in
his car. He told Jed that he had taken a great fancy to the little
girl and could not bear to miss an opportunity of seeing her.
Which statement Jed, of course, accepted wholeheartedly.
But Jed was sure that Ruth had been anxious and troubled of late
and he believed the reason to be that which troubled him. He hoped
she might speak to him concerning her brother. He would have liked
to broach the subject himself, but feared she might consider him
interfering.
One day--it was in late February, the ground was covered with snow
and a keen wind was blowing in over a sea gray-green and splashed
thickly with white--Jed was busy at his turning lathe when Charlie
came into the shop. Business at the bank was not heavy in mid-
winter and, although it was but little after three, the young man
was through work for the day. He hoisted himself to his accustomed
seat on the edge of the workbench and sat there, swinging his feet
and watching his companion turn out the heads and trunks of a batch
of wooden sailors. He was unusually silent, for him, merely
nodding in response to Jed's cheerful "Hello!" and speaking but a
few words in reply to a question concerning the weather. Jed,
absorbed in his work and droning a hymn, apparently forgot all
about his caller.
Suddenly the latter spoke.
"Jed," he said, "when you are undecided about doing or not doing a
thing, how do you settle it?"
Jed looked up over his spectacles.
"Eh?" he asked. "What's that?"
"I say when you have a decision to make and your mind is about
fifty-fifty on the subject, how do you decide?"
Jed's answer was absently given. "W-e-e-ll," he drawled, "I
generally--er--don't."
"But suppose the time comes when you have to, what then?"
"Eh? . . . Oh, then, if 'tain't very important I usually leave it
to Isaiah."
"Isaiah? Isaiah who?"
"I don't know his last name, but he's got a whole lot of first
ones. That's him, up on that shelf."
He pointed to a much battered wooden figure attached to the edge of
the shelf upon the wall. The figure was that of a little man
holding a set of mill arms in front of him. The said mill arms
were painted a robin's-egg blue, and one was tipped with black.
"That's Isaiah," continued Jed. "Hum . . . yes . . . that's him.
He was the first one of his kind of contraption that I ever made
and, bein' as he seemed to bring me luck, I've kept him. He's
settled a good many questions for me, Isaiah has."
"Why do you call him Isaiah?"
"Eh? Oh, that's just his to-day's name. I called him Isaiah just
now 'cause that was the first of the prophet names I could think
of. Next time he's just as liable to be Hosea or Ezekiel or Samuel
or Jeremiah. He prophesies just as well under any one of 'em,
don't seem to be particular."
Charles smiled slightly--he did not appear to be in a laughing
mood--and then asked: "You say he settles questions for you? How?"
"How? . . . Oh. . . Well, you notice one end of that whirligig
arm he's got is smudged with black?"
"Yes."
"That's Hosea's indicator. Suppose I've got somethin' on--on what
complimentary folks like you would call my mind. Suppose, same as
'twas yesterday mornin', I was tryin' to decide whether or not I'd
have a piece of steak for supper. I gave--er--Elisha's whirlagig
here a spin and when the black end stopped 'twas p'intin' straight
up. That meant yes. If it had p'inted down, 'twould have meant no."
"Suppose it had pointed across--half way between yes and no?"
"That would have meant that--er--what's-his-name--er--Deuteronomy
there didn't know any more than I did about it."
This time Phillips did laugh. "So you had the steak," he observed.
Jed's lip twitched. "I bought it," he drawled. "I got so far all
accordin' to prophecy. And I put it on a plate out in the back
room where 'twas cold, intendin' to cook it when supper time came."
"Well, didn't you?"
"No-o; you see, 'twas otherwise provided. That everlastin' Cherub
tomcat of Taylor's must have sneaked in with the boy when he
brought the order from the store. When I shut the steak up in the
back room I--er--er--hum. . . ."
"You did what?"
"Eh? . . . Oh, I shut the cat up with it. I guess likely that's
the end of the yarn, ain't it?"
"Pretty nearly, I should say. What did you do to the cat?"
"Hum. . . . Why, I let him go. He's a good enough cat, 'cordin' to
his lights, I guess. It must have been a treat to him; I doubt if
he gets much steak at home. . . . Well, do you want to give Isaiah
a whirl on that decision you say you've got to make?"
Charles gave him a quick glance. "I didn't say I had one to make,"
he replied. "I asked how you settled such a question, that's all."
"Um. . . . I see. . . . I see. Well, the prophet's at your
disposal. Help yourself."
The young fellow shook his head. "I'm afraid it wouldn't be very
satisfactory," he said. "He might say no when I wanted him to say
yes, you see."
"Um-hm. . . . He's liable to do that. When he does it to me I
keep on spinnin' him till we agree, that's all."
Phillips made no comment on this illuminating statement and there
was another interval of silence, broken only by the hum and rasp of
the turning lathe. Then he spoke again.
"Jed," he said, "seriously now, when a big question comes up to
you, and you've got to answer it one way or the other, how do you
settle with yourself which way to answer?"
Jed sighed. "That's easy, Charlie," he declared. "There don't any
big questions ever come up to me. I ain't the kind of feller the
big things come to."
Charles grunted, impatiently. "Oh, well, admitting all that," he
said, "you must have to face questions that are big to you, that
seem big, anyhow."
Jed could not help wincing, just a little. The matter-of-fact way
in which his companion accepted the estimate of his insignificance
was humiliating. Jed did not blame him, it was true, of course,
but the truth hurt--a little. He was ashamed of himself for
feeling the hurt.
"Oh," he drawled, "I do have some things--little no-account things--
to decide every once in a while. Sometimes they bother me, too--
although they probably wouldn't anybody with a head instead of a
Hubbard squash on his shoulders. The only way I can decide 'em is
to set down and open court, put 'em on trial, as you might say."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, I call in witnesses for both sides, seems so. Here's the
reasons why I ought to tell; here's the reasons why I shouldn't.
I--"
"Tell? Ought to TELL? What makes you say that? What have YOU got
to tell?"
He was glaring at the windmill maker with frightened eyes. Jed
knew as well as if it had been painted on the shop wall before him
the question in the boy's mind, the momentous decision he was
trying to make. And he pitied him from the bottom of his heart.
"Tell?" he repeated. "Did I say tell? Well, if I did 'twas just
a--er--figger of speech, as the book fellers talk about. But the
only way to decide a thing, as it seems to me, is to try and figger
out what's the RIGHT of it, and then do that."
Phillips looked gloomily at the floor. "And that's such an easy
job," he observed, with sarcasm.
"The figgerin' or the doin'?"
"Oh, the doing; the figuring is usually easy enough--too easy. But
the doing is different. The average fellow is afraid. I don't
suppose you would be, Jed. I can imagine you doing almost anything
if you thought it was right, and hang the consequences."
Jed looked aghast. "Who? Me?" he queried. "Good land of love,
don't talk that way, Charlie! I'm the scarest critter that lives
and the weakest-kneed, too, 'most generally. But--but, all the
same, I do believe the best thing, and the easiest in the end, not
only for you--or me--but for all hands, is to take the bull by the
horns and heave the critter, if you can. There may be an awful big
trouble, but big or little it'll be over and done with. THAT bull
won't be hangin' around all your life and sneakin' up astern to get
you--and those you--er--care for. . . . Mercy me, how I do preach!
They'll be callin' me to the Baptist pulpit, if I don't look out.
I understand they're candidatin'."
His friend drew a long breath. "There is a poem that I used to
read, or hear some one read," he observed, "that fills the bill for
any one with your point of view, I should say. Something about a
fellow's not being afraid to put all his money on one horse, or the
last card--about his not deserving anything if he isn't afraid to
risk everything. Wish I could remember it."
Jed looked up from the lathe.
"'He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch
To win or lose it all.'
That's somethin' like it, ain't it, Charlie?" he asked.
Phillips was amazed. "Well, I declare, Winslow," he exclaimed,
"you beat me! I can't place you at all. Whoever would have
accused you of reading poetry--and quoting it."
Jed rubbed his chin. "I don't know much, of course," he said, "but
there's consider'ble many poetry books up to the library and I like
to read 'em sometimes. You're liable to run across a--er--poem--
well, like this one, for instance--that kind of gets hold of you.
It fills the bill, you might say, as nothin' else does. There's
another one that's better still. About--
'Once to every man and nation
Comes the moment to decide.
Do you know that one?"
His visitor did not answer. After a moment he swung himself from
the workbench and turned toward the door.
"'He either fears his fate too much,'" he quoted, gloomily.
"Humph! I wonder if it ever occurred to that chap that there might
be certain kinds of fate that COULDN'T be feared too much? . . .
Well, so long, Jed. Ah hum, you don't know where I can get hold of
some money, do you?"
Jed was surprised. "Humph!" he grunted. "I should say you HAD
hold of money two-thirds of every day. Feller that works in a bank
is supposed to handle some cash."
"Yes, of course," with an impatient laugh, "but that is somebody
else's money, not mine. I want to get some of my own."
"Sho! . . . Well, I cal'late I could let you have ten or twenty
dollars right now, if that would be any help to you."
"It wouldn't; thank you just the same. If it was five hundred
instead of ten, why--perhaps I shouldn't say no."
Jed was startled.
"Five hundred?" he repeated. "Five hundred dollars? Do you need
all that so very bad, Charlie?"
Phillips, his foot upon the threshold of the outer shop, turned and
looked at him.
"The way I feel now I'd do almost anything to get it," he said, and
went out.
Jed told no one of this conversation, although his friend's parting
remark troubled and puzzled him. In fact it troubled him so much
that at a subsequent meeting with Charles he hinted to the latter
that he should be glad to lend the five hundred himself.
"I ought to have that and some more in the bank," he said. "Sam
would know whether I had or not. . . . Eh? Why, and you would,
too, of course. I forgot you know as much about folks' bank
accounts as anybody. . . . More'n some of 'em do themselves,
bashfulness stoppin' me from namin' any names," he added.
Charles looked at him. "Do you mean to tell me, Jed Winslow," he
said, "that you would lend me five hundred dollars without any
security or without knowing in the least what I wanted it for?"
"Why--why, of course. 'Twouldn't be any of my business what you
wanted it for, would it?"
"Humph! Have you done much lending of that kind?"
"Eh? . . . Um. . . . Well, I used to do consider'ble, but Sam he
kind of put his foot down and said I shouldn't do any more. But I
don't HAVE to mind him, you know, although I generally do because
it's easier--and less noisy," he added, with a twinkle in his eye.
"Well, you ought to mind him; he's dead right, of course. You're a
good fellow, Jed, but you need a guardian."
Jed shook his head sadly. "I hate to be so unpolite as to call
your attention to it," he drawled, "but I've heard somethin' like
that afore. Up to now I ain't found any guardian that needs me,
that's the trouble. And if I want to lend you five hundred
dollars, Charlie, I'm goin' to. Oh, I'm a divil of a feller when I
set out to be, desperate and reckless, I am."
Charlie laughed, but he put his hand on Jed's shoulder, "You're a
brick, I know that," he said, "and I'm a million times obliged to
you. But I was only joking; I don't need any five hundred."
"Eh? . . . You don't? . . . Why, you said--"
"Oh, I--er--need some new clothes and things and I was talking
foolishness, that's all. Don't you worry about me, Jed; I'm all
right."
But Jed did worry, a little, although his worry concerning the
young man's need of money was so far overshadowed by the anxiety
caused by his falling in love with Maud Hunniwell that it was
almost forgotten. That situation was still as tense as ever. Two-
thirds of Orham, so it seemed to Jed, was talking about it,
wondering when the engagement would be announced and speculating,
as Gabe Bearse had done, on Captain Sam's reception of the news.
The principals, Maud and Charles, did not speak of it, of course--
neither did the captain or Ruth Armstrong. Jed expected Ruth to
speak; he was certain she understood the situation and realized its
danger; she appeared to him anxious and very nervous. It was to
him, and to him alone--her brother excepted--she could speak, but
the days passed and she did not. And it was Captain Hunniwell who
spoke first.