PIPPIN FINDS A TRADE, "TEMP'RY"
There was a silence when Pippin finished his story. He had no more to
say. He sat erect, looking straight before him, with parted lips and
shining eyes. Jacob Bailey glanced at him once or twice, and cleared his
throat as if to speak, but no words came. Again he looked his horse
over, slowly and critically, as if he rather expected to see something
out of place.
"That strap's worked a mite loose!" he muttered. "He crabs along so, you
can't keep the straps in place."
Finally he blew his nose with much deliberation, and turned toward his
companion. "Young man," he said, "I'd like to shake hands with you!" He
held out a brown, knotty hand, and Pippin grasped it eagerly. "I believe
every word you say, and I thank the Lord for you. I--I'd ought to have
trusted you from the beginning, same as your face told me to, but--"
Pippin shook his head emphatically. "I couldn't ask no more than what
you've done. I thank you, sir! I thank you much!" he cried. "You've
listened real kind and patient, and it sure has done me good, gettin'
this off my chest, like; a heap of good! It has so! And how could you
tell? I've seen crooks looked like--well, real holy and pious, different
from me as a dove from a crow, and they wasn't, but the reverse.
Behooved you be careful, is what I say."
"Especially being guardian of the poor!" said Jacob Bailey. "Yes, son, I
run the Poor Farm, up to Cyrus. It's as pretty a piece of farm land as
there is in the state, and a pleasant place whatever way you take it.
Now--you say you are lookin' for a trade? How about farmin'? Ever think
of that?"
Pippin pondered. "I never had any experience farmin'," he said, "but I
love to see things grow, and I love the smell of the earth, and like
that. I should think 'twould be a dandy trade all right."
"Well!" Jacob Bailey's eyes began to shine too. "Now, young feller, I
tell you what! I--I take to you, some way of it. I don't take to
everybody right away like this; I'm some slow as a rule; but--what I
would say is this: I'm kinder short-handed just now at the Farm, and
unless you find something you like better, why, you might come and have
a try at that."
"You're awful good!" cried Pippin. "Say, you are, Mr. Bailey, no
mistake. I feel to thank you, sir. As if you hadn't done me good enough,
lettin' me blow off steam, without this!"
"Nuff said about that!" Bailey spoke with the gruffness of a shy man.
"You done me good too, so call it square. Well, you think it over,
that's all. No hurry! I'm there right along, and so's the Farm; and
farmin' is as good, clean, pleasant a trade as a man can find--or so I
hold, and I've farmed thirty years."
"I'll bet it is!" Pippin climbed down from the wagon, and the two men
shook hands again, looking each other in the face with friendly eyes.
"I'll bet it is, and I wouldn't wonder a mite but I might take you up
some day, Mr. Bailey. I only want to make sure what it's meant I should
do, and if it is farmin' I'd be real pleased, I wouldn't wonder. And
anyway, I'll look you up some day, sir. I will, sure."
"So do! So do, son! Good luck to you, Pippin, if that's your name. Git
up, Nelson!"
Pippin returned the greetings with enthusiasm, and Jacob Bailey drove
off with many a backward wave and glance.
"Real nice man!" said Pippin. "Ain't it great meetin' up with folks like
that? Now behooves me hasten just a mite, if I'm goin' to get to Kingdom
before sundown! He said 'twas about a mile further. Hello! What's goin'
on here?"
Pippin was not to get to Kingdom before sundown. He stopped short. A man
was lying beside the road, motionless, his feet in the ditch, his head
on a tuft of grass: asleep, it seemed. An elderly man, gray and wizened,
his face seamed with wrinkles of greed and cunning. Near him on the
dusty grass lay a scissor-grinder's wheel. Pippin bent over him, looked,
looked again, then knelt down in the dust.
"It's Nipper Crewe!" he said. "He's--no, he isn't! Hi, there! Crewe!
Hold up! What's the matter?"
"Some kind of fit!" said Pippin. "There's no liquor in him. Here, Crewe,
wake up!"
He shook the man gently: the lids quivered, opened; the bleared eyes
wandered, then fixed, and recognition crept into them.
"Pippin!" he said faintly.
"That's right! It's Pippin, all right. How you feelin', Nipper?"
"What's the matter?"
"Search me!" said Pippin cheerfully. "You appear to have had a fit, or
something. You'll come out all right."
"Where is it?"
"Where's what? Your wheel? Right handy by; I expect it dropped when you
did, but it looks to be all O.K. Took up grindin', eh? Good trade, is
it?"
A cunning look crept into the dim eyes.
"Good enough. Gets you into the house, and then--" his breath failed; he
lay back, gasping, in Pippin's arms.
"Now wouldn't that give you a pain?" muttered Pippin. "Nipper," he said
aloud, "you're feelin' bad, ain't you? Now here we be on a good road
leadin' to a town only a mile off. There's three things to do: I can
carry you a little ways at a time till we get to a house; or we can set
right here and wait till somebody comes along; or I can lay you so
you'll rest easy--as easy as you can--and go and fetch somebody. Now--"
"Don't go!" It was only a whisper, but the groping fingers caught
Pippin's sleeve and held it convulsively.
"Go! Not likely, if you feel that way!" Pippin sat down cheerfully.
"It's nice to sit down, anyway. Say we put your head on my knee--so!
That's easier? Good enough! Why, we've been--not to say pals, Nipper,
but we sat side by each for a matter of a year. It's not likely I'd
leave you, is it?"
The man shook his head feebly.
"I ain't comin' out!" he whispered. "I'm goin'! I'm used up, Pip!"
"Sho! What a way to talk!" Pippin glanced round him uneasily.
"Somebody'll be comin' along in a minute, and we'll get you into the
city, into a nice hospital--"
The man shook his head feebly, but vehemently.
"No you don't!" he said. "No more hospital in mine! They had me in one,
and I shammed well till they let me out. No more of that for me! I'll
die on the road."
No one came; it was a lonely road at best, and at this twilight hour the
Kingdom folk were at their suppers. Impossible to leave the man, who was
evidently dying! Pippin rolled up his coat and put it under the
sufferer's head. Still looking about him with keen anxious glance, he
spied a tiny runnel near by, wet in it one of the two new handkerchiefs
the Warden's wife had given him, and bathed the gray face which seemed
to sharpen as he watched it. He bent lower.
"Crewe! Nipper! Have you got any folks? Can I take any message?"
"No! All gone!"
"Nipper!" Pippin's voice grew eager, his face glowed. "You have got some
one! You've got the Lord, and He's got you. You're goin' to Him. Ain't
that great? Listen!"
The sick man raised himself suddenly.
"The wheel!" he said. "Take the wheel, Pippin! You was always white--I
bought it; I leave it to you--"
He was gone. Pippin laid him down gently, and covered his face with the
hankerchief.
"Poor old Nipper!" he said. "But there! He's better so. He hadn't hit it
off, as you may say, Nipper hadn't. I never knew much about him, but I
knew that much. Give him a new start, some place where there's no rum,
and he might do great things. Now what comes next? I expect we've just
got to wait here till somebody comes along. I couldn't leave him this
way, what say?"
Pippin sat down by the roadside. He made no pretense of regret for the
departure of Nipper; seeing that he hadn't hit it off here, what object
in his remaining, bein' he was let to go?
"Nipper's ma, now, may have thought he was a nice kid, and no doubt done
her best by him, but if she'd had any idea how he was goin' to look an'
act when he growed up, why that lady would have been discouraged, she
sure would. Hark! there's somebody comin' at last!"
The disposal of poor Nipper's earthly part was a tedious business, but
it was accomplished finally. Pippin followed the coffin to its resting
place as in duty bound. The authorities questioned him pretty sharply,
but finally let him go with an admonition not to go sittin' round the
ro'ds, but get to work at something. There had been one doubtful
moment by the roadside, when the man who picked them up (he chanced to
be a selectman of Kingdom) asked who owned the wheel. Pippin looked at
him with puzzled eyes, and fingered his file. Why not? he was saying
to himself. He knew scissor-grinding, knew it from A to Z. Why not
take hold, now, since it had dropped right into his hand, so to say?
Yes, but how did he know--he, Pippin, was on the straight now,
forever-and-ever-give-glory-amen, and Nipper was a crook from 'way
back. How did he know--but then again, _did_ he know? 'Twas all right
to stand straight, but no need to straighten so far you fall over
backwards! See? Mebbe this was what the Lord had in view, he wouldn't
wonder!
"I expect it's mine!" he said.
The man looked him over sharply. "You expect it's yours?" he repeated.
"What do you mean by that?"
"It's mine, then!" said Pippin, decidedly, and laid his hand on the
wheel. It was a leading, he decided. The man stood irresolute a moment,
but Pippin smiled at him, and nodded assurance. "It's all right, boss!"
he said. "It's mine right enough, see? And I'll see to it. What we've
got to do now is to get this poor old guy buried, what?"
Finally, here was Pippin with a trade ready to his hand.
"Temp'ry!" he assured himself. "I don't feel that the Lord picked out
scissor-grindin' for me, but while I'm lookin' about, 'twill keep the
pot a-b'ilin', and while I'm grindin', I'll grind good, just watch me!"
Pippin had spent for supper and lodging one of the dollars Elder Hadley
had given him, but he had no idea of spending the other. Sharp-set for
breakfast, he carried his wheel through the main street of Kingdom, his
quick eyes glancing from side to side, and stopped before a door bearing
the legend, "Bakery and Lunch." The window beside the door was polished
to the last point of brilliance; the loaves, rolls, pies and cakes
displayed within were tempting enough. "This for mine!" said Pippin, and
stepped in.
"Mornin'!" he said to the crisp, fresh, rosy-cheeked woman behind the
counter. "Nice mornin', ain't it?"
"It sure is!" was the reply. "What can I serve you?"
"Well! I was wonderin' if we could do a little business, you an' me. Say
I sharpen your knives and you give me a mite of breakfast; how would
that suit?"
The woman looked him over carefully. "You a knife-grinder?" she asked.
"_And_ scissors! Wheel right outside here. I'll grind while you get the
coffee. That's straight, isn't it?"
"'Pears to be! What do you ask for a bread knife?"
"You tell me what you're in the habit of payin', and I'll ask that. I'm
new to the trade, and I aim to please. Here, sonny!" as a black-eyed
urchin bobbed in from the bakery, his arms full of loaves. "Gimme your
jackknife and I'll sharpen it just for luck, so your ma'll see I mean
business! Sing you a song, too! Hand it over. My! that's a handsome
knife!
"'There was an old man--'"
The stroke succeeded. The jackknife brought to murderous sharpness, the
mistress of the bakery declared that the others could wait. Soon Pippin
was enjoying to the full what he declared a breakfast that a king would
cry for: eggs and bacon, coffee and rolls, all excellent of their kind.
"I wonder why they _call_ it coffee over there!" he confided to his
stick. "'Cause if this is, that ain't, you see! But 'twas good as I
deserved! That's the way they look at it, I take it; and I expect
they're right. No, ma'am, not another morsel. I'm full as much obliged
to you. That sure was a good meal! Now I'm ready to sharpen all the
knives and scissors in the county. I'll stand my wheel close to the door
where it won't be in folks' way, and then just watch me!"
The baker's wife brought an apronful of knives and scissors, and Pippin
set to work, blessing the Old Man, who had put him in the tool shop for
six months and made him keep the tools in order while old Grindstone was
laid up with rheumatism. Old Grindstone! Pippin wondered what his real
name was. "They called him Grindstone, account of a song he used to sing
when he was grindin'. He said 'grinstone' where I say 'grindstone,' and
I always maintained I had reason, because it grinds; but he thought
otherwise, and he'd grind away--wonderful hand he was at it; in for
twenty years, and ground all the time except when laid up as he was now
and again; arson, though he says he never knew there was any one in the
house, and anyway they was got out alive, though some damaged--well--so
he'd grind away, the old man would, and all the time he'd sing in a kind
of dry, wheezy voice:
"Grin, grinstone, grin!
Grin, grinstone, grin!
When you're out
You roam about,
But it's otherwise when you're in--grin!
It's otherwise when you're in! Grin!
It's otherwise when you're in!"
Pippin's voice rang out round and full; his wheel turned merrily, the
blades flashed in the sun. A little crowd gathered round him, watching
the whirling wheel. Looking up, he saw some children among them. Was
this quite the song for them? He checked himself and broke out with
"There was an old man
And he was mad--"
The children clustered nearer.
"Sing another!" said a little flaxen-haired girl in a pink pinafore.
Pippin looked at her approvingly, and reflected that she was the very
moral of the "little gal," that little sister he had--or as good as had,
almost! He ran over his repertory: most of the prison songs were not
what her ma would choose--certainly not! But--there was one the cook's
boy used to sing--how did that go?
"Dum de rido! dum de rido!
I had a little dog, and his name was Fido--"
"What's that?" Something seemed to speak in his heart. "Why not sing one
of the Lord's songs? Well, I _am_ a duffer! And tryin' to think of some
that would do!"
He threw back his head, and let out his voice in a shout that made the
listeners start:
"Oh, Mother dear, Jerusalem,
When shall I come to thee?
When shall my sorrows have an end,
Thy joys when shall I see?"
The baker's wife came to the door and stood, wiping her eyes with her
apron. The baker, flushed and floury, left his ovens and came to peer
over her shoulder, open-mouthed; people appeared in the neighboring
windows and doorways, and the crowd on the sidewalk thickened silently.
Pippin neither saw nor heard them; his voice poured out in waves of
song, longing, rejoicing, triumphant.
"Thy gardens and thy goodly walks
Continually are green,
Where grow such sweet and pleasant flowers
As nowhere else are seen."
"You bet they do!"
"Right through the streets with silver sound
The living waters flow,
And on the banks on either side
The trees of life do grow."
"There, ma'am, there's your knives and scissors as good as I can do 'em,
and I hope it's pretty good, to pay for that good breakfast. I surely
do."
"Good land, young man!" cried the baker's wife. "Who learned you to
sing like that? Why, you'd sing the heart out of a stone statue!"
Pippin laughed joyously, eyes and teeth flashing together.
"I expect the Lord did, ma'am!" he said. "Anyhow it's His song, and you
have to sing it as good as you can, ain't that so? Don't know of a job
goin' beggin', do you, ma'am?"
"What kind of job?"
"'Most any kind! I'm lookin' for a trade to work in with my grindin' for
a spell. I'm handy, var'ous ways: make brooms, set glass, carpenter or
solder, I've done 'em all."
"Ever been in a bakery?"
"Not yet, but I'd admire to, if there was a chance."
Pippin's face kindled, and he looked eagerly from the baker's wife to
the baker himself who was considering him gravely. He was a stout,
kindly-looking man; his right hand was bandaged, and he wore his arm in
a sling.
"I'm in need of an extry hand myself," he said slowly, with a glance at
the bandage. "I don't know--" He looked at his wife, who nodded
emphatically.
"Step inside a minute, young man! Move on, boys, if you'll be so good!
You're cluttering up the whole sidewalk."
The crowd slowly dispersed, one or two neighbors lingering to question
the good woman of the shop about the young stranger who sang so
wonderfully. Who was he? Where'd he come from? Good-lookin', wasn't he?
Their own knives would be none the worse for goin' over--
Inside the neat, fragrant shop, with its tempting display of coffee
cakes, brown and varnished, of shapely loaves and rolls, cookies and
doughnuts, the baker questioned Pippin. At first the questioning
promised to be brief, for when, in response to "Where do you come from?"
he heard, "State Prison!" the good man shook his head resolutely.
"I guess that isn't good enough!" he said, not unkindly. "I'm sorry,
young feller, for I like your looks, and you sing like a bird; but--my
shop has a good name, and--"
"Hold on!" Pippin laid a hand on his arm. "I know how you feel, sir! I'd
feel the same in your place; but it would be because I didn't know. I
won't hurt your shop, nor you! I'm _straight_! Lemme tell you!"
He told his story briefly, the baker listening with anxious, doubtful
looks.
"So you see," he ended, "I couldn't go on the crook again, not if I
wanted to, and I don't!"
Still the comfortable-looking baker shook his head. "I've heard pious
talk before," he said; "it don't always hold good. I'm afraid--" he
rose, as if to close the interview; Pippin rose too. His eyes roved
round the pleasant shop, and came back, meeting the baker's squarely.
"This is a dandy place!" he said slowly; "and you have the look of a
dandy person, if you'll excuse the freedom. I'd like to work for you,
and--I'd hate--to think--that you wouldn't help a guy that wanted help
and wanted to work for it. I think you make a mistake; but it's your
store, and what you say goes."
With a little bow and another regretful look around him, Pippin turned
toward the door. A moment, and he would be gone. His hand was on the
latch.
"Hold on!" said the baker. "I didn't say positive. I'm not a hard man by
nature, only--"
"I bet you ain't!" said Pippin. "That's why I say I think you make a
mistake--" He turned back with his smile that seemed to warm and
brighten the whole shop. "Try me, Mister! Try me a week, and see for
yourself. No satisfaction, no pay, as it says on the medicine bottles.
And I couldn't pinch anything off'n you now if I wanted to. I've put you
wise, and you'll be on the watch, see?"
The baker laughed in spite of himself. "We'll make it a week, then!" he
said. "But not a word to my wife of where you come from. She's
timoreous, and she wouldn't sleep a wink all night."
"Now!" said Pippin, "I wouldn't break that good lady's rest, not for all
the elegant things in this bakeshop."