THE FORECLOSURE
Early in July when the drought had burned the crops to a crisp, and
plant life was beyond redemption, the Banks, Trust and Insurance
Companies holding notes secured by mortgages against the land and stock
of Jean Baptiste began proceedings for a foreclosure. He read with the
cold perspiration upon his forehead the notices that appeared in the
papers. Attachments were filed against all he personally possessed in
Gregory County, as well as in Tripp County. The fact that he had not had
his sister's homestead transferred to him, and that she had just made
proof that summer, was a relief to him now, and with a sigh he laid down
the newspapers containing the notices.
It was no surprise since he had been threatened with such for many
months, he regarded it therefore as unavoidable. But when the grim
reality of the situation dawned upon him, it weakened him. Never had he
dreamed that it would come to this. He took mental inventory of his
possessions and what he could lay claim to, and he happened to think
about his wife's homestead. On this he had made his home since her
departure, and no trouble had been given him. While the local land
office had rendered a decision in her favor; the contestee had taken an
appeal to the general land office and the commissioner and upon being
represented by an attorney, the local land office's decision had been
reversed. It had been up to him then to go further, which he had done,
by appealing the case to the highest office in the land department, the
Secretary of the Interior, and here it rested. To do this, he had agreed
to pay the attorney $300 to win, and one hundred dollars in the event he
should not, the latter amount he had paid, and so the case stood. He had
formulated no plans regarding it beyond this as to how he would continue
to hold it, since now it was a settled fact in his mind that he and the
woman he had married were parted forever.
But poverty accompanied by crop failures for three years was a general
and accepted thing now. And the fact that he was being foreclosed,
occasioned no comment, and at least he could continue on without
intensely feeling the attendant disgrace.
It was at this juncture in life that a new thought came to Jean
Baptiste. In all his life he had been a thinker, a practical thinker--a
prolific thinker. Moreover, a great reader into the bargain. So the
thought that struck him now, was writing. Perhaps he could write. If so
then what would he write? So in the days that followed, gradually a plot
formed in his mind, and when he had decided, he chose that he could
write his own story--his life of hell, the work of an evil power!
Of writing he knew little and the art of composition appeared very
difficult. But of thought, this he had a plenty. Well, after all that
was the most essential. If one has thoughts to express, it is possible
to learn very soon some method of construction. So after some weeks of
speculation, he bought himself a tablet, some pencils and took up the
art of writing.
He found no difficulty in saying something. The first day he wrote ten
thousand words. The next day he reversed the tablet and wrote ten
thousand more. In the next two days he re-wrote the twenty thousand,
and on the fifth day he tore it into shreds and threw it to the winds.
He had raised a little wheat and when the foreclosures had been
completed and the wheat had been threshed he sowed a large portion of
the seed back into the ground on three hundred acres of ground upon
which the crop that year had failed. According to the law of the state,
when a foreclosure is completed, the party of the first part may redeem
the land within one year from the date of the foreclosure. Or, better
still, he may pay the interest, and taxes at the end of one year from
the date of the foreclosure, and have still another year in which to
redeem the land. So it is to be seen that if Jean Baptiste could pay his
interest and taxes one year from this time, he would have two years in
all to redeem his lost fortunes. Hence, in seeding a large acreage of
wheat, he hoped for the best. The years, however, had been too adverse
to now expect any returns when a crop was sown and it had been merely
good fortune that he happened to secure the means with which to sow
another, for credit there was for few any more.
When this was done, there was nothing to do but listen to the wind that
blew dry still, although the protracted drought had been broken by light
autumn rains. So took he up his pencil and fell to the task of writing
again. Through the beautiful, windy autumn days, he labored at his
difficult task, the task of telling a story. The greatest difficulty he
encountered was that he thought faster than he could write. Therefore he
often broke off right in the middle of a sentence to relate an incident
that would occur to him to tell of something else. But at last he had
written something that could be termed a story. He took what appeared to
him to be quite sufficient for a book to a friend who had voiced an
interest in his undertaking. In fact, although he had said nothing
about it, the news had spread that he was writing a story of the country
and everybody became curious.
Of course they were not aware of his limited knowledge of the art of
composition. To them, a patriotic, boosting people--despite the ravages
of drought which had swept the country, this was a new kind of boost,--a
subtle method of advertising the country. So everybody began looking for
the appearance of his story in all the leading magazines. The fact
helped the newsdealers considerably. But to return to Jean Baptiste and
the story he was writing.
The friend was baffled when he saw so many tablets and such writing. He
pretended to be too busy, at the time to consider it, and sent him to
another. But it was a long time before he found any one who was willing
to attempt to rearrange his scribbled thoughts. But a lawyer who needed
the wherewithal finally condescended to risk the task, and into it he
plunged. He staggered along with much difficulty and managed to complete
half of it by Christmas. The remainder was corrected by a woman who
proved even more efficient than the lawyer, notwithstanding the fact
that she was not as well trained. Besides, Jean Baptiste was of quick
wit, and he soon saw where he was most largely in error, so he was very
helpful in reconstructing the plot, and early in the next year, he had
some sort of story to send the rounds of the publishers.
And here was the next great problem. He had, while writing, and before,
read of the difficulties in getting a manuscript accepted for
publication. But, like most writers in putting forth their first
literary efforts, he was of the opinion that what he had written was so
different from the usual line of literature offered the publishers, that
it must therefore receive preference over all.
So with its completion, he wrapped it carefully, and sent it to a
Chicago publisher, while he sighed with relief.
It seemed a long time before he heard from it, but in a few days he
received a letter, stating that his manuscript had been received, and
would be carefully examined, and also thanking him for sending it to
them.
Well, that sounded very encouraging, he thought, so he took hope anew
that it would be accepted.
In the meantime he was questioned daily as to when and where it would
appear. He was mentioned in the local newspapers, and much speculation
was the issue. Many inquired if he had featured them in the story, and
were cheered if he said that he had, while others showed their
disappointment when advised that they had not been mentioned. But with
one and all, there was shown him deep appreciation of his literary
effort.
So anxious did he become to receive their "decision" that as the days
passed and he waited patiently, he finally went to town to board until
he could receive a reply. And as time passed, he became more and more
nervous. At last his anxiety reached a point where he was positive that
if he received an adverse decision, it would surely kill him. Therefore
he would entertain no possibility of a rejection. It _must_ be accepted,
and that was final. Added to this, he took note of all the publicity he
had been accorded with regard to the same. How would he be able to face
these friends if they failed to accept the book? Tell them that it had
been rejected as unavailable? This fact worried him considerably, and
made him persist in his own mind that the company would accept it.
Some of his less practical creditors extended his obligation
anticipating that his work would net him the necessary funds for
settlement--the question of acceptance they did not know enough about
to consider. So it went, the time passed, and he could scarcely wait
until the stage reached the little town where he now received his mail.
He was never later than the second at the postoffice window. He had read
in Jack London's _Martin Eden_ that an acceptance meant a long thin
envelope. Well, that was the kind he watched for--but of course, he
estimated, it was possible for it to come in another form of envelope,
so he wouldn't take that too seriously. Still, if such an envelope
should be handed him, he would breathe easier until it was opened.
And then one day the letter came. The Postmaster, who knew everybody's
business, regarded the publishers' name in the upper left hand corner,
and said:
"There she is! Now read it aloud!"
Baptiste muttered something about that not being the one, and got out of
the office. His heart was pounding like a trip hammer; for, while he had
concluded that a long thin envelope would not necessarily mean an
acceptance, his was a short one, and he was greatly excited.
He went blindly down the street, turned at the corner and sought a quiet
place, a livery barn. Herein he found an empty stall that was dark
enough not to be seen, and still afforded sufficient light to read in.
He nervously held the letter for some minutes afraid to open and read
the contents, and tried to stop the violent beating of his heart. At
last, with forced courage, he broke the seal, drew the letter forth and
read:
"_Mr. Jean Baptiste_,
"DEAR SIR:
"As per our statement of some time ago, regarding the manuscript
you were so kind as to send us, beg to advise that the same has
been carefully examined, and we regret to state has been found
unavailable for our needs. We are therefore returning the same to
you today by express.
"Regretting that we cannot write you more favorably, but thanking
you for bringing this to our attention, believe us to be,
"Cordially and sincerely yours,
"A.C. MCGRAW & CO."
He gazed before him at nothing for some minutes. He was trying to
believe he had read awrong. So he read it again. No, it read just the
same as it had before. It was done; his last opportunity for redemption
seemed to be gone. He turned and staggered from the barn and went
blindly up the street. At the corner he met the deputy sheriff, who
approached him jovially, and then gave him another shock when he said:
"I've got a writ here, Baptiste, and will be glad to have you tell me
where this stuff of yours is so I can go and get it."
He raised his hand to his forehead then, and began thinking. He _had_ to
do something, for although all his land had been foreclosed on, he had
two years to redeem the same. But this writ--well, the man was there to
take the stock, then!