John went to the rack to untie his horses and Mitch and me was standin'
off waitin' to get in the wagon. Mitch said in kind of a low voice,
"This don't seem right to me. I've got a kind of feelin' we'll not come
back; that we'll miss the boat or somethin'. I feel a little as if we're
being tricked."
I said, "No, Mitch, how can it be? You don't think John Armstrong came
on purpose to the boat to catch us, do you?"
"No," said Mitch.
"He couldn't know we're on the boat. Well, then, where's the trick?"
Said Mitch, "Well, he knows our pas, he knows we'd started for St.
Louis, and maybe just as a good turn to our pas, he fixed it with the
captain to get us off the boat and bring us to his house."
Says I, "That can't be, Mitch. In the first place, he's wanted us to
visit him for a long while, and in the next place, what'd be the use of
him interferin' this way and takin' us to his house? He knows we could
steal out of the window to-night, or walk away to-morrow mornin'. It
ain't only six miles from his house to Havaner, and we can be back here
by Saturday in spite of anything."
Mitch says, "Yes, but suppose he telegraphs or somethin' to our folks,
and they come and get us."
"Well," says I, "if we see any sign of that, we'll sneak. Besides, John
don't know enough to telegraph. He never telegraphed in his life. And
the mail is too slow. I tell you what let's do, let's stay with John
to-night and to-morrow after dinner wander off and come back here."
"That's it," said Mitch. "That is what we'll do. But anyway you take it
the jig's up if they want it to be. Because they could catch us on the
boat if they wanted to. John knows we're goin' on the boat, and if he
peaches, why, we're caught."
John backed up the horses and we got in and so started off. Then Mitch
began to feel John out. As we passed the depot he says: "I suppose you
don't want to telegraph Aunt Caroline (that was John's wife) that we're
comin' and you've got company."
"Telegraph," says John, with a chuckle and a giggle. "Why, I never sent
a telegram in my life, and besides Aunt Caroline always has enough to
eat, and we have two spare beds, so what's the use of wastin' money on a
telegram?"
I nudged Mitch. A part of the way to John's we went along the edge of a
place where nothin' growed at all. There wasn't a weed or a tree. John
said it was the Mason County desert, and onct he got over in there and
got lost, that there wasn't a livin' thing in there, and not a crow ever
flew over it.
And then we came to Oakford--not as nice a town as Bobtown, the houses
not so white, and not the same well-kept look. But John had a fine
house, not very big, nice and comfortable with a big yard, and a brick
walk and flowers. It was right at the edge of town and his farm went way
off clear to the woods.
Aunt Caroline just said howdy and smiled and went into the kitchen; and
John went to the sink and washed out of a pan and we did, and then we
had supper; the most jellies I ever saw, and wild honey, and cold ham,
and fried chicken, and several kinds of bread, and cake and berries and
cream. So after that Mitch and me was about caught up on meals. John
talked all the time at supper and swore a good deal, about every other
word, not the worst swearin', but regular swearin'; and he kept tellin'
one thing and then another about folks around the country, things that
had happened. But all the time Aunt Caroline just set there and et and
never said a word.
After supper John said he'd go over and get Vangy to play the organ and
keep time for him. Says he, "You can't fiddle without a organ or
somethin' to keep time. That warn't no fiddlin' on the boat." So John
went out and that left us with Aunt Caroline, and she just cleaned up
the dishes awful nice and orderly, but never said nothin'--not a word.
John was gone at least half an hour. He came in then and said Vangy
would be over, then he went to a trunk and got out a Bible, and showed
it to us. And says he, "Linkern read out of this, by God." That was the
swear word he kept usin', and I don't like to use it, and won't again.
But when I say John swore, you'll know what I mean. "Yes, sir (swear
word), this is the Bible. It belongs (swear word) to old Aunt Sarie
Rutledge (swear word), and I borrowed it off'n her to show your pa one
time and never hain't took it back. Aunt Sarie is a relative of Jasper,
the Sheriff (swear word)." So he put that back. Then he showed us a
picture of Duff, his brother, which Linkern defended for murder, and a
picture of one of the jurymen what let Duff off, and a picture of his
mother's brother what was the greatest fiddler ever in the county. And
he showed us Duff's discharge from the army which Linkern wrote, and a
badge which Linkern had given to his mother onct. So then I said to
John, "Did you ever see Mr. Linkern?"
Said John, "Lots of times (swear word). I heard him make a speech over
at Havaner against Douglas. Douglas warn't there, but it were agin him
(swear word)."
Then Mitch said, "How did he look?" "Wal (swear word)," says John, "he
was just sottin' on the platform and he looked like he didn't have no
sense, kind a dull; and his legs was so long that his jints stuck up
above his ears like a grasshopper with his jints above his back. But
when he got up to talk, he changed. His face got lively like, and he
took everybody right off their feet."
So I, bein' the States Attorney's son, was interested in Duff's case,
and I asked John if he heard the trial.
"No, sir," said John, "I didn't. I had the ager and couldn't go. You see
he warn't tried at Havaner, but down at Beardstown, and the only time I
went thar was when I went to see Duff with my mother, while Duff was
thar in jail."
"Did you see him?" asked Mitch. "Yes (swear word)," said John, "he was
thar. He was sottin' thar, him and another feller. Thar they was in
jail. And I said to Duff, 'What's he in thar fur?' Said Duff: 'Stole one
of them Shanghai roosters (swear word) wuth five dollars; stand on thar
feet and pick corn off'n a table like that.'"
"How long was Duff in jail?" asked Mitch.
"Well, sir (swear word) he must have been thar most of the fall. I don't
recollect; and then they had the trial and Linkern cleared him with a
almanac."
"How's that?" says I.
"Wal (swear word), they was witnesses that swore they seed Duff hit this
feller with a sling-shot, and they seed it because the moon was bright
right at the meridian. And Linkern got every witness to go over it again
and say the moon was at the meridian, and that's why they seed Duff hit
this feller with a sling-shot; and after Linkern had got it all clear by
cross questionin' these witnesses, then he pulled out a almanac, and
says to the judge and the jury, 'Look here.' They looked and saw that
the moon warn't at the meridian, but was a settin' (swear word); and so
they couldn't have seed Duff hit him with a slung-shot. And Linkern put
a feller on the stand and axed him 'Did you ever make a slung-shot?'
'Yes,' says he. 'Tell me how,' says Linkern. 'Wal,' says he, 'I took a
egg shell and sunk one half of it in the sand; then I melted some zinc
and lead and poured it into the egg shell, and made two of these; then I
took a old boot and cut out some leather and sewed the leather around
these two halves with squirrel's hide; then I made a loop for the wrist
of squirrel's hide'; and then Linkern says, 'Look at this.' He handed a
slung-shot to the feller; and says, 'Take your knife and rip it open.'
So he did, and there fell out the two halves molded in this here egg
shell, and so the slung-shot belonged to this feller and didn't belong
to Duff at all. And they had found it thar where the fight was; but
every one fit that night (swear word). You see they were a-holdin' a
camp meetin', and about a mile off thar was a bar where they sold
drinks, and they'd go and get religion a little (swear word), and then
go and get some drinks, and so on back and forth, and so they fit. And
this here feller that was killed and Duff fit here onct right in
Oakford, because he pulled Duff off'n a barl where he was sleepin', and
Duff got up and whooped him."
By this time Vangy came in. And Mitch was in the best of spirits. I
never heard him laugh so much.
Vangy sat down to the organ, and John tuned up his fiddle, and they
started. Aunt Caroline came in then and sot down and began to knit, but
didn't say nothin'. John just drew a few times with his bow and then he
said: "This here is called 'Pete McCue's Straw Stack,' named after old
Peter McCue who lived down by Tar Creek. They had a dance thar and the
fellers hitched their horses clost to a straw stack in the lot and when
they came out the horses had et all the straw stack up. So they had been
a playin' this here tune and after that they called it 'Pete McCue's
Straw Stack.'"
Then John played it, tappin' his foot, and Vangy just made the organ
talk. She was as thin as a killdeer, and looked consumptive, but she
knew how to play the organ, you bet.
Then John began to laugh and he says, "Thar was a feller over near Salt
Creek named Clay Bailey, that tried to play the fiddle, but he never
played but one tune, and they called it 'Chaw Roast Beef.' He warn't a
very big man, but round chested and stout, and he came here onct when
Porky Jim Thomas was runnin' a saloon here, before he moved to Bobtown.
Wal, this here Clay Bailey was in thar havin' some drinks with the boys,
and all at onct a feller came in with his coat tail all chawed off, and
lookin' pretty blue and he said a bull dog had come fur him. Clay would
fight anything. And so he says to the stranger, 'You buy the drinks, and
I'll go out and whoop the bull.' 'All right,' says the stranger. So he
bought the drinks and Clay went out, follered by the hull crowd. The
bull belonged to one of the Watkinses and was in a wagon watchin'; so
Clay went right up to the wagon and the bull jumped for him. Clay caught
him by the ear and held him off with one hand and pounded him over the
heart with his fist, till the bull gave up. Then Clay flung him down
like, and the bull got up and run about 40 rods down to a walnut tree
and stood there and just bellered as if the moon was shinin'. Now,
Vangy, 'Chaw Roast Beef.'"
[Illustration: John Armstrong Plays the Fiddle]
So John played that and Mitch was rollin' from side to side in his chair
and laughin' fit to kill. Then John said, "I s'pose you boys never seed
no platform dancin'." We never had and wanted to know what it was. "Wal
(swear word)," says John, "they put up a platform and one after another
they get up on the platform and dance, and when they get real earnest
they take their shoes off. Jim Tate who went out to Kansas was the best
platform dancer we ever had around here. He came over one night to Old
Uncle Billy Bralin's whar my uncle was a fiddlin'--the best fiddler they
ever was here. And Jim heard him and got to jigglin' and finally he
looked in the room and he says, 'Clar the cheers out, I'm goin' to take
off my shoes and come down on her.' So they did, and while he was
dancin' his foot went through one of the holes in the puncheon floor and
skinned one of his shins. Up to then they had always called this piece
'Shoats in the Corn,' but after that they called it 'Skinnin' your
Shins.' Go ahead, Vangy." Then he played "Skinnin' your Shins," and
after that "Rocky Road to Jordan," "Way up to Tar Creek," "A Sly Wink at
Me," "All a Time a Goin' with the High Toned Gals," and a lot more that
I can't remember, and between every piece he'd tell a story.
Then John began to get tired, and it was about ten o'clock. So Vangy
went home, and we all went to bed. And after Mitch and me got in bed, I
heard him laughin' to himself, and I says, "What's the matter, Mitch?"
And he says, "This is the funniest thing I ever see, I wouldn't have
missed this for anything." Then we fell asleep.
The next mornin' Aunt Caroline had the wonderfulest breakfast you ever
saw: waffles, honey, bacon, eggs, and John just et and talked and kept
swearin'. And Aunt Caroline sat lookin' down at her plate eatin' and
didn't say nothin'--just looked calm and happy.
John seemed to have some kind of business that mornin'. Anyway he went
away for a bit and left us to ourselves lookin' about the place and
goin' over some photographs Aunt Caroline had. By and by Vangy came in
and John. And John got out the fiddle again, to play a piece he called
"Injun Puddin'" and so the fun was startin' all over again. There was a
knock at the door and Aunt Caroline went and opened it, and there stood
my pa and Mr. Miller. "Well, you young pirates," said my pa, as he came
in the room, "you're goin' down to see Tom Sawyer, are you, and run away
from your home?"
"They got a job on the steamboat, Hard," said John. "You can't interfere
with that, you know." And he laughed and swore.
"I'll get a switch to you, young man," my pa went on. "Mitchie, what
makes you do this?" asked Mr. Miller. "It does beat the world. Your
mother is worried almost to death."
Mitch looked down. I was still because I was scared. Pretty soon
everything got jolly again. John fiddled some more. They all told
stories, the funniest you ever heard, and everybody laughed. I saw Aunt
Caroline smile clear across her face. Then we had a grand dinner. And
when the train came in, my pa and Mr. Miller put us on and took us back
to Petersburg.
Of course John Armstrong tricked us, but when did he do it--and how? I
don't know.