VII

The Saturday-night frequenters of The Greenbush have changed with the

passing years like all else in Flamsted. The Greenbush itself is no

longer a hostelry, but a cosy club-house purveyed for, to the

satisfaction of every member, by its old landlord, Augustus Buzzby. The

Club's membership, of both young and old men, is large and increasing

with the growth of the town; but the old frequenters of The Greenbush

bar-room head the list--Colonel Caukins and Octavius Buzzby paying the

annual dues of their first charter member, old Joel Quimber, now in his

eighty-seventh year.

The former office is a grill room, and made one with the back parlor,

now the club restaurant. On this Saturday night in March, the

white-capped chef--Augustus prided himself in keeping abreast the

times--was busy in the grill room, and Augustus himself was

superintending the laying of a round table for ten. The Colonel was to

celebrate his sixty-fifth birthday by giving a little supper.

"Nothing elaborate, Buzzby," he said a week before the event, "a fine

saddle of mutton--Southdown--some salmon trout, a stiff bouillon for

Quimber, you know his masticatory apparatus is no longer equal to this

whole occasion, and a chive salad. _The_ cake Mrs. Caukins elects to

provide herself, and I need not assure you, who know her culinary

powers, that it will be a _ne plus ultra_ of a cake, both in material

and execution; fruits, coffee and cheese--Roquefort. Your accomplished

chef can fill in the interstices. Here are the cards--Quimber at my

right, if you please."

Augustus looked at the cards and smiled.

"All the old ones included, I see, Colonel," he ran over the names,

"Quimber, Tave, Elmer Wiggins, Emlie, Poggi and Caukins"--he laughed

outright; "that's a good firm, Colonel," he said slyly, and the Colonel

smiled his appreciation of the gentle insinuation--"the manager at the

sheds, and the new boss of the Upper Quarry?" He looked inquiringly at

the Colonel on reading the last name.

"That's all right, Buzzby; he's due here next Saturday, the festal day;

and I want to give some substantial expression to him, as a stranger and

neighbor, of Flamsted's hospitality."

Augustus nodded approval, and continued: "And me! Thank you kindly,

Colonel, but you'll have to excuse me this time. I want everything to go

right on this special occasion. I'll join you with a pipe afterwards."

"As you please, Buzzby, only make it a cigar; and consider yourself

included in the spirit if not in the flesh. Nine sharp."

At a quarter of nine, just as Augustus finished putting the last touch

to an already perfect table, the Colonel made his appearance at The

Greenbush, a pasteboard box containing a dozen boutonnieres under his

arm. He laid one on the table cloth by each plate, and stood back to

enjoy the effect. He rubbed his hands softly in appreciation of the

"color scheme" as he termed it--a phrase that puzzled Augustus. He saw

no "scheme" and very little "color" in the dark-wainscoted room, except

the cheerful fire on the hearth and some heavy red half-curtains at the

windows to shut out the cold and dark of this March night. The walls

were white; the grill of dark wood, and the floor painted dark brown.

But the red carnations on the snow-white damask did somehow "touch the

whole thing up," as he confided later to his brother.

The Colonel's welcome to his companions was none the less cordial

because he repressed his usual flow of eloquence till "the cloth should

be removed." He purposed then to spring a surprise, oratorical and

otherwise, on those assembled.

After the various toasts,--all given and drunk in sweet cider made for

the occasion from Northern Spies, the Colonel being prohibitive for

example's sake,--the good wishes for many prospective birthdays and

prosperous years, the Colonel filled his glass to the brim and, holding

it in his left hand, literally rose to the occasion.

"Gentlemen," he began in full chest tones, "some fourteen years ago,

five of us now present were wont to discuss in the old office of this

hospitable hostelry, now the famous grill room of the Club, the Invasion

of the New--the opening of the great Flamsted Quarries--the migrations

of the nations hitherwards and the consequent prospective industrial

development of our native village."

He paused and looked about him impressively; finally his eye settled

sternly on Elmer Wiggins who, satisfied inwardly with the choice and

bounteous supper provided by the Colonel, had made up his mind to "stand

fire", as he said afterwards to Augustus.

The Colonel resumed his speech, his voice acquiring as he proceeded a

volume and depth that carried it far beyond the grill room's walls to

the ears of edified passers on the street:

"There were those among us who maintained--in the face of extreme

opposition, I am sorry to say--that this town of Flamsted would soon

make itself a factor in the vast industrial life of our marvellous

country. In retrospect, I reflect that those who had this faith, this

trust in the resources of their native town, were looked upon with

scorn; were subjected to personal derision; were termed, to put it

mildly, 'mere dreamers'--if I am not mistaken, the original expression

was 'darned boomers.' Mr. Wiggins, here, our esteemed wholesale and

retail pharmacist, will correct me if I am wrong on this point--"

He paused again as if expecting an answer; nothing was forthcoming but a

decidedly embarrassed "Hem," from the afore-named pharmacist. The

Colonel was satisfied.

"Now, gentlemen, in refutation of that term--I will not repeat

myself--and what it implied, after fourteen years, comparable to those

seven fat kine of Pharaoh's dream, our town can point throughout the

length and breadth of our land to its monumental works of art and

utility that may well put to blush the renowned record of the Greeks and

Romans."

Prolonged applause and a ringing cheer.

"All over our fair land the granite monoliths of _Flamsted_, beacon or

battle, point heavenwards. The transcontinental roads, that track and

nerve our country, cross and re-cross the raging torrents of western

rivers on granite abutments from the _Flamsted_ quarries! The laws,

alike for the just and unjust,"--the Colonel did not perceive his slip,

but Elmer Wiggins smiled to himself,--"are promulgated within the

stately granite halls of the capitals of our statehood--_Flamsted_

again! The gospel of praise and prayer will shortly resound beneath the

arches of the choir and nave of the great granite cathedral--the product

of the quarries in The Gore!"

Deafening applause, clinking of glasses, and cries of "Good!

True--Hear--Hear!"

The Colonel beamed and gathered himself together with a visible effort

for his peroration. He laid his hand on his heart.

"A man of feeling, gentlemen, has a heart. He is not oblivious either of

the needs of his neighbor, his community, or the world in general.

Although he is vulnerable to wounds in the house of his friends,"--a

severe look falls upon Wiggins,--"he is not impervious to appeal for

sympathy from without. I trust I have defined a man of feeling,

gentlemen, a man of heart, as regards the world in general. And now, to

make an abrupt descent from the abstract to the concrete, from the

general to the particular, I will permit myself to say that those

aspersions cast upon me fourteen years ago as a mere promoter,

irrespective of my manhood, hurt me as a man of feeling--a man of heart.

"Sir--" he turned again to Elmer Wiggins who was apparently the

lightning conductor for the Colonel's fourteen years of pent-up

injury--"a father has his feelings. You are _not_ a father--I draw no

conclusions; but _if_ you had been a father fourteen years ago in this

very room, I would have trusted to your magnanimity not to give

expression to your decided views on the subject of the native Americans'

intermarriage with those of a race foreign to us. I assure you, sir,

such a view not only narrows the mind, but constricts humanity, and

ossifies the heart--that special organ by which the world, despite

present-day detractors, lives and moves and has its being." (Murmuring

assent.)

"But, sir, I believe you have come to see otherwise, else as my guest on

this happy occasion, I should not permit myself to apply to you so

personal a remark. And, gentlemen," the Colonel swelled visibly, but

those nearest him caught the shimmer of a suspicious moisture in his

eyes, "I am in a position to-night--this night whereon you have added to

my happiness by your presence at this board--to repeat now what I said

fourteen years ago in this very room: I consider myself honored in that

a member of my immediate family, one very, very dear to me," his voice

shook in spite of his effort to strengthen it, "is contemplating

entering into the solemn estate of matrimony at no distant date with--a

foreigner, gentlemen, but a naturalized citizen of our great and

glorious United States. Gentlemen," he filled his glass again and held

it high above his head,--"I give you with all my heart Mr. Luigi Poggi,

an honored and prosperous citizen of Flamsted--my future son-in-law--the

prospective husband of my youngest daughter, Dulcibella Caukins."

The company rose to a man, young Caukins assisting Quimber to his feet.

With loud and hearty acclaim they welcomed the new member of the Caukins

family; they crowded about the Colonel, and no hand that grasped his and

Luigi's in congratulation was firmer and more cordial than Elmer

Wiggins'. The Colonel's smile expanded; he was satisfied--the old score

was wiped out.

Afterwards with cigars and pipes they discussed for an hour the affairs

of Flamsted. The influx of foreigners with their families was causing a

shortage of houses and housing. Emlie proposed the establishment of a

Loan and Mortgage Company to help out the newcomers. Poggi laid before

them his plan for an Italian House to receive the unmarried men on their

arrival.

"By the way," he said, turning to the new head of the Upper Quarry, "you

brought up a crowd with you this afternoon, didn't you?--mostly my

countrymen?"

"No, a mixed lot--about thirty. A few Scotch and English came up on the

same train. Have they applied to you?" He addressed the manager of the

Company's sheds.

"No. I think they'll be along Monday. I've noticed that those two

nationalities generally have relations who house and look out for them

when they come. But I had an application from an American just after the

train came in; I don't often have that now."

"Did you take him on?" the Colonel asked between two puffs of his

Havana.

"Yes; and he went to work in Shed Number Two. I confess he puzzles me."

"What was he like?" asked the head of the Upper Quarry.

"Tall, blue eyes, gray hair, but only thirty-four as the register

showed--misfit clothes--"

"That's the one--he came up in the train with me. I noticed him in the

car. I don't believe he moved a muscle all the way up. I couldn't make

him out, could you?"

"Well, no, I couldn't. By the way, Colonel, I noticed the name he

entered was a familiar one in this part of Maine--Googe--"

"Googe!" The Colonel looked at the speaker in amazement; "did he give

his first name?"

"Yes, Louis--Louis C. Googe--"

"My God!"

Whether the ejaculation proceeded from one mouth or five, the manager

and foreman could not distinguish; but the effect on the Flamsted men

was varied and remarkable. The Colonel's cigar dropped from his shaking

hand; his face was ashen. Emlie and Wiggins stared at each other as if

they had taken leave of their senses. Joel Quimber leaned forward, his

hands folded on the head of his cane, and spoke to Octavius who sat

rigid on his chair:

"What'd he say, Tave?--Champ to home?"

But Octavius Buzzby was beyond the power of speech. Augustus spoke for

him:

"He said a man applied for work in the sheds this afternoon, Uncle Jo,

who wrote his name Louis C. Googe."

"Thet's him--thet's Champ--Champ's to home. You help me inter my coat,

Tave, I 'm goin' to see ef's true--" He rose with difficulty. Then

Octavius spoke; his voice shook:

"No, Uncle Jo, you sit still a while; if it's Champney, we can't none of

us see him to-night." He pushed him gently into his chair.

The Colonel was rousing himself. He stepped to the telephone and called

up Father Honore.

"Father Honore--

"This is Colonel Caukins. Can you tell me if there is any truth in the

report that Champney Googe has returned to-day?

"Thank God."

He put up the receiver, but still remained standing.

"Gentlemen," he said to the manager and the Upper Quarry guest, his

voice was thick with emotion and the tears of thankfulness were coursing

down his cheeks, "perhaps no greater gift could be bestowed on my

sixty-fifth birthday than Champney Googe's return to his home--his

mother--his friends--we are all his friends. Perhaps the years are

beginning to tell on me, but I feel that I must excuse myself to you and

go home--I want to tell my wife. I will explain all to you, as strangers

among us, some other time; for the present I must beg your

indulgence--joy never kills, but I am experiencing the fact that it can

weaken."

"That's all right, Colonel," said the manager; "we understand it

perfectly and it's late now."

"I'll go, too, Colonel," said Octavius; "I'm going to take Uncle Jo home

in the trap."

Luigi Poggi helped the Colonel into his great coat. When he left the

room with his prospective father-in-law, his handsome face had not

regained the color it lost upon the first mention of Champney's name.

Emlie and Wiggins remained a few minutes to explain as best they could

the situation to the stranger guests, and the cause of the excitement.

"I remember now hearing about this affair; I read it in the

newspapers--it must have been seven or eight years ago."

"Six years and four months." Mr. Wiggins corrected him.

"I guess it'll be just as well not to spread the matter much among the

men--they might kick; besides he isn't, of course, a union man."

"There's one thing in his favor," it was Emlie who spoke, "the

management and the men have changed since it occurred, and there are

very few except our home folks that would be apt to mention it--and they

can be trusted where Champney Googe is concerned."

The four went out together.

The grill room of The Greenbush was empty save for Augustus Buzzby who

sat smoking before the dying fire. Old visions were before his eyes--one

of the office on a June night many years ago; the five friends

discussing Champney Googe's prospects; the arrival of Father Honore and

little Aileen Armagh--so Luigi had at last given up hope in that

direction for good and all.

The town clock struck twelve. He sighed heavily; it was for the old

times, the old days, the old life.