COLONEL JEPTHA HARRINGTON
The young express agent recognized the tones before he saw the speaker's
face. Only one person in Pleasantville had that mixture of lofty command
and tragic emphasis, and that was Colonel Jeptha Harrington.
As Bart turned, he saw the village magnate ten feet away, planted like a
rock, and extending his big golden-headed cane as if it was a spear and
he was poising to immediately impale a victim. The colonel's brow was a
veritable thundercloud.
"Yes, sir," announced Bart promptly--"what can I do for you?"
Bart did not get excited in the least. He looked so cool and collected
that the colonel ground his teeth, stamped his foot and advanced
swinging his cane alarmingly.
"I've come to see you--" he began, and choked on the words.
"May I ask what for?" interrogated Bart.
Colonel Harrington shook, as he placed his cane under his arm and took
out his big plethoric wallet.
He selected a strip of paper and held it between his forefinger and
thumb.
"Young man," he observed, "do you know what that is?"
Bart shook his head.
"Well, I'll tell you, it's a bill, do you hear? a bill. It's for
eighty-five dollars, damage done maliciously on my private grounds,
yesterday evening. It represents the bare cost of a new copper pedestal
to replace the one you shot to pieces last night, and it's a wonder you
are not in jail for murder, for had that cannon ball struck a human
being--Enough! before I take up this outrage with the district attorney
in its criminal phase, are you going to settle the damage, or are you
not?"
"Colonel Harrington, I haven't got eighty-five dollars."
"Then get it!" snapped the Colonel.
"Nor can I get it."
"Then," observed the colonel, restoring the bit of paper to his
pocket--"go to jail!"
Bart regarded his enemy dumbly. Colonel Harrington was a power in
Pleasantville, his will and his way were paramount there.
"I am sorry," said Bart finally, in a tone of genuine distress, "but
eighty-five dollars is a sheer impossibility--in cash. If you would
listen to me--"
"But I shan't!"
"I would like to offer payment or replace the pedestal on reasonable
terms."
"It don't go!"
"And, further, I am not to blame in the matter."
"What!" roared the colonel "what's that?"
"It's the truth," asserted Bart. "I never knew the cannon was loaded
with a ball."
"Do you know who loaded it?"
Bart was silent.
"You won't tell? We'll see if a jury can't make you, then!" fumed the
colonel. "Aha! it's serious now, is it? Not so much fun breaking up my
home and breaking up my speech at the grove to-day, hey?"
Bart saw very plainly that what rankled most with his volcanic visitor
was the blow to his pride he had suffered that afternoon at the grove.
"You put me in a nice fix, didn't you?" cried the colonel--"laughing
stock of the community! Young man, you're on the downward road, fast.
You're all of a brood. Your mother--"
Bart started forward with a dangerous sparkle in his eye.
"Colonel Harrington," he said decisively, "my mother has nothing to do
with this affair."
"She has!" vociferated the magnate, "or rather, her teachings. You're
full of infernal pride and presumption, the whole kit of you!"
"We have our rights."
"I'm a stockholder in the B. & M., and I fancy my influence will reach
the express service. You'll stay in your present job just long enough
for me to advise your employers of your true character."
Bart was dismayed--that threat touched him to the quick. He had felt
very glad that Mr. Leslie had not met the irate colonel. The
mean-spirited magnate noted instantly the effect of his threat.
"You'll insult and defy me, will you?" he cried, with a gloating
chuckle. "Very well--you take your medicine, that's all."
Bart could hardly control his voice, but he said simply:
"Colonel Harrington, my father has been blinded at his post of duty. I
am the sole support of the family. I hope you will pause and consider
before you plunge us into new trouble and distress that we do not
deserve. I have never had the remotest thought of injuring you or your
property in any way. I am willing to make all the amends I am able for
the accidental damage to your property, but I can't and won't cringe to
your injustice, nor grovel at your feet."
"Eighty-five dollars--one, the name of the person who loaded that
cannon--two, C.O.D. before ten o'clock to-morrow morning, or I'll sweep
you off the map!" shouted the colonel.
He marched off, puffing up as his vain senses were tickled with the
fancy that he was a born orator, and had just given utterance to some
profoundly apt and clever sentiments. Bart stared after him in sheer
dismay.
"It's a bad outlook," he murmured, "but--I have tried to do my duty. I
would like to have money and influence, but would rather be plain Bart
Stirling than that man. He is coming back."
Bart thought this, for, just about to round the end of a dead freight
and cross to the public street, his late visitor turned abruptly.
He did not, however, retrace his steps. Instead, he came to the
strangest rigid pose Bart had ever seen a human being assume.
He stood staring, spellbound, at the partly open door of the nearest
freight car. His cane had fallen from his hand, his head was thrown up
as if he had been struck a stunning blow under the chin, and even at the
distance he was, Bart could see that his usually red-puffed face was the
color of chalk. Almost immediately, through the open doorway space of
the freight car an arm was protruded.
Its index finger was pointed, inflexible as an iron rod, directly at the
colonel. It fascinated and transfixed the military man, and Bart
Stirling, staring also at the strange tableau, was overcome with
perplexity and mystification.