Grandma Padgett had prepared the noon lunch that very day, but
scarcely expected to make use of it. On the western borders of
Columbus lived a cousin Padgett in such a country place as had long
been the talk of the entire family connection. Cousin Padgett was a
mighty man in the city, and his wife and daughters had unheard-of
advantages. He had kept up a formal but very pleasant intercourse
with grandma's branch; and when he learned at the State Fair, the
year previous, her son Tip's design to cast their future lots in the
West, he said he should take it very ill if they did not spend the
first night of their journey with him. Grandma Padgett decided that
relationship must claim her for at least one meal.
Bobaday and Corinne saw Zene pause at the arched gates of this
modern castle, according to his morning's instructions. Corinne's.
heart thumped apprehensively. It was a formidable thing to be going
to cousin Padgett's. He lived in such overwhelming grandeur. She
knew, although she had never seen his grounds, that he kept two
gardeners on purpose to take care of them. His parlors were covered
with carpets in which immense bouquets of flowers were wrought, and
he had furniture not only of horsehair, but of flowered red velvet
also. I suppose in these days cousin Padgett's house would be
considered the extreme of expensive ugliness, and a violation of all
laws of beauty. But it was the best money could buy then, and that
was considered enough. Robert was not affected by the fluttering care
of his young aunt. He wanted to see this seat of grandeur. And when
Zene walked back down the avenue from making inquiries, and announced
that the entire family were away from home, Bobaday felt a shock of
disappointment.
Cousin Padgett did not know the exact date of the removal, and
people wrote few letters in those days. So he could not be blamed for
his absence when they came by. Zene limped up to his seat in front of
the wagon, and they moved forward along the 'pike.
“Good!” breathed aunt Corinne, settling back.
“'Tisn't good a bit!” said Bobaday.
And whom should they meet in a few miles but cousin Padgett himself,
riding horseback and leading a cream-colored horse which he had been
into the country to purchase. This was almost as trying as taking
dinner at his house. He insisted that the party should turn back. His
wife and daughters had only driven into the city that morning. Cousin
Padgett was a charming, hearty man, with a ring of black whiskers
extending under his face from ear to ear, and the more he talked the
less Corinne feared him. When he found that his kinspeople could not
be prevailed upon to return with him, he tied up his horses to the
wagon in the wood-shed where Zene unhitched, and took dinner with
grandma Padgett.
Aunt Corinne sat on a log beside him and ate currant pie. He went
himself to the nearest house and brought water. And when a start was
made, he told the children he still expected a visit from them, and
put as a parting gift a gold dollar as delicate as an old three-cent
piece, into the hand of each.
Bobaday felt his loss when the cream-colored horse could no longer
be discerned in the growing distance. Grandma Padgett smiled
pleasantly ahead through her blue glasses: she had received the
parting good wishes of a kinsman; family ties had very strong
significance when this country was newer. Aunt Corinne gazed on the
warm gold dollar in her palm, and wagged her head affectionately over
it for cousin Padgett's sake.
The afternoon sun sagged so low it stared into grandma's blue.
spectacles and made even Corinne shelter her eyes. Zene drove far
ahead with his load to secure lodgings for the night. Having left
behind the last acquaintance and entered upon the realities of the
journey, grandma considered it time to take off her Leghorn bonnet
and replace it with the brown barege one drawn over wire. So Bobaday
drew out a bandbox from under the back seat and helped grandma make
the change. The seat-curtain dropped over the Leghorn in its bandbox;
and this reminded him that there were other things beside millinery
stowed away in the carriage. Playthings could be felt by an
appreciative hand thrust under the seat; and a pocket in the side
curtain was also stuffed.
“I think I'll put my gold money in the bottom of that pocket,” said
aunt Corinne, “just where I can find it easy every day.”
She drew out all the package and dropped it in, and, having stuffed
the pocket again, at once emptied it to see that her piece had not
slipped through some ambushed hole. Aunt Corinne was considered a
flighty damsel by all her immediate relatives and acquaintances. She
had a piquant little face containing investigating hazel eyes. Her
brown hair was cut square off and held back from her brow by a round
comb. Her skin was of the most delicate pink color, flushing to rosy
bloom in her cheeks. She was a long, rather than a tall girl, with
slim fingers and slim feet, and any excitement tingled over her
visibly, so that aunt Corinne was frequently all of a quiver about
the most trivial circumstances. She had a deep dimple in her chin and
another at the right side of her mouth, and her nose tipped just
enough to give all the lines of her face a laughing look.
But this laughing look ran ludicrously into consternation when,
twisting away from the prospect ahead, she happened to look suddenly
backward under the looped-up curtain, and saw a head dodging down.
Somebody was hanging to the rear of the carriage.
Aunt Corinne kneeled on the cushion and stretched her neck and eyes
out over a queer little old man, who seemed to carry a bunch of some
kind on his back. He had been running noiselessly behind the
carriage, occasionally hanging by his arms, and he was taking one of
these swings when his dodging eyes met hers, and he let go, rolling
in the 'pike dust.
“You _better_ let go!” scolded aunt Corinne. “Bob'day, there's
a beggar been hangin' on! Ma Padgett, a little old man with a bag on
his back was goin' to climb into this carriage!”
[Illustration: A QUEER LITTLE OLD MAN.]
“Tisn't a bag,” said Bobaday laughing, for the little old man looked
funny brushing the dust off his ragged knees.
“_'Tis_ a bag,” said aunt Corinne, “and he ought to hurt himself
for scarin' us.”
“There's no danger of his doing us harm,” said grandma Padgett
mildly, after she had leaned out at the side and brought her blue
glasses to bear upon the lessening figure of the little old man.
Yet Corinne watched him when he sat down on a bank to rest; she
watched him grow a mere bunch and battered hat, and then fade to a
speck.
The 'pike was the home of such creatures as he appeared to be. The
advance guard of what afterwards became an army of tramps, was then
just beginning to move. But they were few, and, whether they asked
help or not, were always known by the disreputable name of “beggars.”
A beggar-man or beggar-woman represented to the minds of aunt Corinne
and her nephew such possible enemies as chained lions or tigers. If
an “old beggar” got a chance at you there was no telling in what part
of the world he would make merchandise of you! They always suspected
the beggar boys and girls were kidnapped children. While it was
desirable to avoid these people, it was even more desirable that a
little girl should not offend them.
Aunt Corinne revolved in her mind the remark she had made to the
little old man with a bag on his back. She could take no more
pleasure in the views along the 'pike; for she almost expected to see
him start out of a culvert to give her cold shivers with his
revengeful grimaces. The culverts were solid arches of masonry which
carried the 'pike unbroken in even a line across the many runs and
brooks. The tunnel of the culvert was regarded by most children as
the befitting lair of beggars, who perhaps would not object to
standing knee-deep in water with their heads against a slimy arch.
“This is the very last culvert,” sighed Corinne, relieved, as they
rumbled across one and entered the village where they were to stop
over night.
It was already dusk. The town dogs were beginning to bark, and the
candles to twinkle. Zene's wagon was unhitched in front of the
tavern, and this signified that the carriage-load might confidently
expect entertainment. The tavern was a sprawled-out house, with an
arch of glass panes over the entrance door. A fat post stood in front
of it, upholding a swinging sign.
The tavern-keeper came out of the door to meet them when they
stopped, and helped his guests alight, while a hostler stood ready to
lead the horses away.
Aunt Corinne sprung down the steps, glad of the change after the
day's ride, until, glancing down the 'pike over their late route, she
saw tramping toward the tavern that little old man with a bag on his
back.