STRANGER GETS A JOB
When the new guest reappeared from the dining room, having finished his
supper, Landlord McLaughlin met him with an engaging manner.
“Welcome to our town,” said Peter. “We’re always glad to see strangers
drift in. Smoke?”
He tendered a cigar, which the other accepted in a somewhat hesitating
manner. Peter nipped off the end of another cigar and struck a match,
which he held for the young man to light up before lighting his own.
“It’s rather dry,” said the landlord.
“Is it?” said the one who called himself Stranger, taking the cigar
from his mouth and looking at it doubtfully.
“I mean the weather. We ain’t had much rain lately. Rather bad for
crops, though it’s good for baseball, and we’re interested in that
round here.”
The young man made no reply, but took another uncertain whiff or two at
the cigar. Suddenly he said:
“I don’t believe I smoke. I don’t care for it, anyhow. If you don’t
mind, I won’t smoke this one.”
To McLaughlin it seemed a bit odd that any man shouldn’t know whether
he smoked or not, but he made no comment as the other tossed the cigar
into a cuspidor.
“How’s things the way you come from?” he asked. “We always like to meet
folks from the big town. Say, won’t you come into the writing room and
set down for a little chat?”
“I don’t mind. I’m a bit tired, but it’s rather early to turn in.”
Kennedy was watching them from behind a newspaper in a distant corner.
He saw them enter the writing room, where the landlord placed a chair
for the guest in such a manner that the latter’s back would be turned
toward the door. Almost immediately Jack rose, and, paper in hand,
walked quietly toward the writing room.
“What’s your business, if it ain’t too inquisitive of me?” McLaughlin
was saying as Kennedy reached the door.
“I’m a――a diamond cutter,” was the somewhat hesitating answer. “But I
had to give it up on account of my health. You can see it has taken
hold of me.”
Old Peter gave his husky-looking companion a quizzical, sidelong
glance.
“Mebbe so,” he half chuckled; “but I’d never noticed it if you hadn’t
spoke. What are you planning to do?”
“A pill slinger suggested that I ought to get out into the country and
find a job somewhere in the open air. I’m looking for work on a farm.”
“On a farm, hey?”
“Yes, the rural life for mine. Between us, pal, I’ve hit it up some in
my day. Even when I was a boy I was a high flier.”
“You don’t say so!”
The landlord knew that Kennedy had taken a seat in the room some
distance behind them, but he did not look round.
“I always was a wild chap,” the young man went on. “When I was a boy
I touched plenty of high spots. Cards have tripped me, too. Ever play
poker?”
“Ho! Sometimes winters we have a little sociable game of penny ante
round here just to pass away the time.”
“I’ve been an easy mark at the game, but I like it. Can’t keep away.
Every time I get a roll I go searching for trouble. I’ve got a little
wad of long green right now that’s burning in my pocket. I’d like to
find three or four good sports and get up a game.”
“I don’t cal’late you can kick up one this season o’ the year,” said
Peter. “’Sides that, we generally play among ourselves, not caring to
gamble in the reg’ler sense of the word. The strait-laced people round
here think that Satan’s got a strangle hold on anybody that plays cards
for money.”
“I was brought up in a strait-laced family, pal. My old man thought
cards the tools of Satan. It broke my mother’s heart when she found I
was playing penny ante with a bunch of youngsters. Maybe that’s what
finished her. But come, what’s the use to talk of things like that?”
“Yep, what’s the use? Baseball’s the game in the summertime hereabouts.
We’ve got a pretty hot team, I tell you. All we need now is a rattlin’
good pitcher.”
“The guff I hear and see in the newspapers about baseball makes me
tired, bo. Seems like ninety per cent. of the population has gone
bug-house about the game.”
“Well, that don’t hurt ’em. Folks has got to have something for
recreation. All work and no play is bad policy. Don’t s’pose you know
where we could get holt of a good pitcher, a left-hander?”
Locke seemed to meditate a moment as if seeking to recall something,
then in a queer way he answered:
“One time I was mistook for a pitcher I happened to look like. A gent
blew up and called me by that ball tosser’s name and asked me how I
was doing at it. Really, he didn’t believe me when I told him I’d never
pitched a ball in my life and that I didn’t know a curve from a――from a
wedge of――restaurant pie.”
Old Peter cleared his throat with a rasping sound and shoved round his
chair till he could glance at Kennedy, who made a quick, cautioning
gesture.
“Then if that’s the case,” floundered the landlord helplessly, “I
don’t s’pose you can help us none. I’m sorry. I didn’t take you for a
minister’s son.”
“I am,” was the prompt assurance. “If I can’t help you, perhaps you
know where I can get a job on a farm.”
“You say you’ve never done no farm work, but, still, green hands ain’t
to be sneezed at when help is short.”
Kennedy rose and stepped forward.
“I’m a farmer,” he said, “and I need a man.”
The new arrival in Deering looked up with a slight frown.
“You’re the man I met when I first came in,” he said. “Well, if you
need a laborer on your farm perhaps we can talk business, bo.”
“You don’t look like a sick man to me.”
“My business has been too confining. You can see it has affected me. I
don’t like confinement.”
“I’ll give you all the outdoor work you want,” announced Jack, “and if
you’re any good I’ll pay you twenty-five dollars a month and keep.”
“That suits me. It’s a deal.”
“All right,” said Kennedy; “I’ll be in town to-morrow afternoon and
take you out to my farm. My name, as I told you before, is Kennedy.”
“And mine, as I told you before,” said the other, “is Stranger.”
“‘Stranger’ goes,” returned Kennedy. “You can call yourself anything
you blame please. It’s none of my business.”