Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Diane Monico, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by the Canadian Institute for
Historical Microreproductions (www.canadiana.org).)
OFF-HAND STORIES
OLD MAN SAVARIN
And Other Stories
BY
EDWARD WILLIAM THOMSON
TORONTO:
WILLIAM BRIGGS, WESLEY BUILDINGS.
C. W. COATES, MONTREAL, QUE. S. F. HUESTIS, HALIFAX, N.S.
1895.
Entered, according to the Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year
one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five, by WILLIAM BRIGGS,
Toronto, in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture, at Ottawa.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. OLD MAN SAVARIN 7
II. THE PRIVILEGE OF THE LIMITS 29
III. MCGRATH'S BAD NIGHT 45
IV. GREAT GODFREY'S LAMENT 67
V. THE RED-HEADED WINDEGO 89
VI. THE SHINING CROSS OF RIGAUD 109
VII. LITTLE BAPTISTE 125
VIII. THE RIDE BY NIGHT 152
IX. DRAFTED 174
X. A TURKEY APIECE 199
XI. GRANDPAPA'S WOLF STORY 219
XII. THE WATERLOO VETERAN 239
XIII. JOHN BEDELL 251
XIV. VERBITZSKY'S STRATAGEM 271
_For liberty to issue these stories in present form the author has to
thank_ THE YOUTHS' COMPANION, _Boston; the proprietors of "Two Tales,"
in which "Old Man Savarin" and "Great Godfrey's Lament" first
appeared; and "Harper's Weekly" and Mr. S. S. McClure's syndicate of
newspapers, which, respectively, first published "The Privilege of the
Limits" and "John Bedell"_.
* * * * *
OLD MAN SAVARIN.
Old Ma'ame Paradis had caught seventeen small doré, four suckers, and
eleven channel-catfish before she used up all the worms in her
tomato-can. Therefore she was in a cheerful and loquacious humor when
I came along and offered her some of my bait.
"Merci; non, M'sieu. Dat's 'nuff fishin' for me. I got too old now for
fish too much. You like me make you present of six or seven doré? Yes?
All right. Then you make me present of one quarter dollar."
When this transaction was completed, the old lady got out her short
black clay pipe, and filled it with _tabac blanc_.
"Ver' good smell for scare mosquitoes," said she. "Sit down, M'sieu.
For sure I like to be here, me, for see the river when she's like
this."
Indeed the scene was more than picturesque. Her fishing-platform
extended twenty feet from the rocky shore of the great Rataplan Rapid
of the Ottawa, which, beginning to tumble a mile to the westward,
poured a roaring torrent half a mile wide into the broader, calm brown
reach below. Noble elms towered on the shores. Between their trunks we
could see many whitewashed cabins, whose doors of blue or green or red
scarcely disclosed their colors in that light.
The sinking sun, which already touched the river, seemed somehow the
source of the vast stream that flowed radiantly from its blaze.
Through the glamour of the evening mist and the maze of June flies we
could see a dozen men scooping for fish from platforms like that of
Ma'ame Paradis.
Each scooper lifted a great hoop-net set on a handle some fifteen feet
long, threw it easily up stream, and swept it on edge with the
current to the full length of his reach. Then it was drawn out and at
once thrown upward again, if no capture had been made. In case he had
taken fish, he came to the inshore edge of his platform, and upset the
net's contents into a pool separated from the main rapid by an
improvised wall of stones.
"I'm too old for scoop some now," said Ma'ame Paradis, with a sigh.
"You were never strong enough to scoop, surely," said I.
"No, eh? All right, M'sieu. Then you hain't nev' hear 'bout the time
Old Man Savarin was catched up with. No, eh? Well, I'll tol' you 'bout
that." And this was her story as she told it to me.
* * * * *
"Der was fun dose time. Nobody ain't nev' catch up with dat old rascal
ony other time since I'll know him first. Me, I'll be only fifteen
den. Dat's long time 'go, eh? Well, for sure, I ain't so old like
what I'll look. But Old Man Savarin was old already. He's old, old,
old, when he's only thirty; an' _mean--baptême!_ If de old Nick ain'
got de hottest place for dat old stingy--yes, for sure!
"You'll see up dere where Frawce Seguin is scoop? Dat's the Laroque
platform by right. Me, I was a Laroque. My fader was use for scoop
dere, an' my gran'fader--the Laroques scoop dere all de time since
ever dere was some Rapid Rataplan. Den Old Man Savarin he's buyed the
land up dere from Felix Ladoucier, an' he's told my fader, 'You can't
scoop no more wisout you pay me rent.'
"'Rent!' my fader say. '_Saprie!_ Dat's my fader's platform for scoop
fish! You ask anybody.'
"'Oh, I'll know all 'bout dat,' Old Man Savarin is say. 'Ladoucier let
you scoop front of his land, for Ladoucier one big fool. De lan's mine
now, an' de fishin' right is mine. You can't scoop dere wisout you pay
me rent.'
"'_Baptême!_ I'll show you 'bout dat,' my fader say.
"Next mawny he is go for scoop same like always. Den Old Man Savarin
is fetch my fader up before de magistrate. De magistrate make my fader
pay nine shillin'!
"'Mebbe dat's learn you one lesson,' Old Man Savarin is say.
"My fader swear pretty good, but my moder say: 'Well, Narcisse, dere
hain' no use for take it out in _malediction_. De nine shillin' is
paid. You scoop more fish--dat's the way.'
"So my fader he is go out early, early nex' mawny. He's scoop, he's
scoop. He's catch plenty fish before Old Man Savarin come.
"'You ain't got 'nuff yet for fishin' on my land, eh? Come out of
dat,' Old Man Savarin is say.
"'_Saprie!_ Ain' I pay nine shillin' for fish here?' my fader say.
"'_Oui_--you pay nine shillin' for fish here _wisout_ my leave. But
you ain't pay nothin' for fish here _wis_ my leave. You is goin' up
before de magistrate some more.'
"So he is fetch my fader up anoder time. An' de magistrate make my
fader pay twelve shillin' more!
"'Well, I s'pose I can go fish on my fader's platform now,' my fader
is say.
"Old Man Savarin was laugh. 'Your honor, dis man tink he don't have
for pay me no rent, because you'll make him pay two fines for trespass
on my land.'
"So de magistrate told my fader he hain't got no more right for go on
his own platform than he was at the start. My fader is ver' angry.
He's cry, he's tear his shirt; but Old Man Savarin only say, 'I guess
I learn you one good lesson, Narcisse.'
"De whole village ain't told de old rascal how much dey was angry
'bout dat, for Old Man Savarin is got dem all in debt at his big
store. He is grin, grin, and told everybody how he learn my fader two
good lesson. An' he is told my fader: 'You see what I'll be goin' for
do wis you if ever you go on my land again wisout you pay me rent.'
"'How much you want?' my fader say.
"'Half de fish you catch.'
"'_Monjee!_ Never!'
"'Five dollar a year, den.'
"'_Saprie_, no. Dat's too much.'
"'All right. Keep off my lan', if you hain't want anoder lesson.'
"'You's a tief,' my fader say.
"'Hermidas, make up Narcisse Laroque bill,' de old rascal say to his
clerk. 'If he hain't pay dat bill to-morrow, I sue him.'
"So my fader is scare mos' to death. Only my moder she's say, '_I'll_
pay dat bill, me.'
"So she's take the money she's saved up long time for make my weddin'
when it come. An' she's paid de bill. So den my fader hain't scare no
more, an' he is shake his fist good under Old Man Savarin's ugly nose.
But dat old rascal only laugh an' say, 'Narcisse, you like to be fined
some more, eh?'
"'_Tort Dieu_. You rob me of my place for fish, but I'll take my
platform anyhow,' my fader is say.
"'Yes, eh? All right--if you can get him wisout go on my land. But you
go on my land, and see if I don't learn you anoder lesson,' Old
Savarin is say.
"So my fader is rob of his platform, too. Nex' ting we hear, Frawce
Seguin has rent dat platform for five dollar a year.
"Den de big fun begin. My fader an Frawce is cousin. All de time
before den dey was good friend. But my fader he is go to Frawce
Seguin's place an' he is told him, 'Frawce, I'll goin' lick you so
hard you can't nev' scoop on my platform.'
"Frawce only laugh. Den Old Man Savarin come up de hill.
"'Fetch him up to de magistrate an' learn him anoder lesson,' he is
say to Frawce.
"'What for?' Frawce say.
"'For try to scare you.'
"'He hain't hurt me none.'
"'But he's say he will lick you.'
"'Dat's only because he's vex,' Frawce say.
"'_Baptême! Non!_' my fader say. 'I'll be goin' for lick you good,
Frawce.'
"'For sure?' Frawce say.
"'_Saprie!_ Yes; for sure.'
"'Well, dat's all right den, Narcisse. When you goin' for lick me?'
"'First time I'll get drunk. I'll be goin' for get drunk dis same
day.'
"'All right, Narcisse. If you goin' get drunk for lick me, I'll be
goin' get drunk for lick you'--_Canadien_ hain't nev' fool 'nuff for
fight, M'sieu, only if dey is got drunk.
"Well, my fader he's go on old Marceau's hotel, an' he's drink all
day. Frawce Seguin he's go cross de road on Joe Maufraud's hotel, an'
_he's_ drink all day. When de night come, dey's bose stand out in
front of de two hotel for fight.
"Dey's bose yell an' yell for make de oder feller scare bad before dey
begin. Hermidas Laronde an' Jawnny Leroi dey's hold my fader for fear
he's go 'cross de road for keel Frawce Seguin dead. Pierre Seguin an'
Magloire Sauve is hold Frawce for fear he's come 'cross de road for
keel my fader dead. And dose men fight dat way 'cross de road, till
dey hain't hardly able for stand up no more.
"My fader he's tear his shirt and he's yell, 'Let me at him!' Frawce
he's tear his shirt and he's yell, 'Let me at him!' But de men hain't
goin' for let dem loose, for fear one is strike de oder ver' hard. De
whole village is shiver 'bout dat offle fight--yes, seh, shiver bad!
"Well, dey's fight like dat for more as four hours, till dey hain't
able for yell no more, an' dey hain't got no money left for buy
wheeskey for de crowd. Den Marceau and Joe Maufraud tol' dem bose it
was a shame for two cousins to fight so bad. An' my fader he's say
he's ver' sorry dat he lick Frawce so hard, and dey's bose sorry. So
dey's kiss one anoder good--only all their close is tore to pieces.
"An' what you tink 'bout Old Man Savarin? Old Man Savarin is just
stand in front of his store all de time, an' he's say: 'I'll tink I'll
fetch him _bose_ hup to de magistrate, an' I'll learn him _bose_ a
lesson.'
"Me, I'll be only fifteen, but I hain't scare 'bout dat fight same
like my moder is scare. No more is Alphonsine Seguin scare. She's
seventeen, an' she wait for de fight to be all over. Den she take her
fader home, same like I'll take my fader home for bed. Dat's after
twelve o'clock of night.
"Nex' mawny early my fader he's groaned and he's groaned:
'Ah--ugh--I'm sick, sick, me. I'll be goin' for die dis time, for
sure.'
"'You get up an' scoop some fish,' my moder she's say, angry. 'Den you
hain't be sick no more.'
"'Ach--ugh--I'll hain't be able. Oh, I'll be so sick. An' I hain' got
no place for scoop fish now no more. Frawce Seguin has rob my
platform.'
"'Take de nex' one lower down,' my moder she's say.
"'Dat's Jawnny Leroi's.'
"'All right for dat. Jawnny he's hire for run timber to-day.'
"'Ugh--I'll not be able for get up. Send for M'sieu le Curé--I'll be
goin' for die for sure.'
"'_Mis re_, but dat's no _man_! Dat's a drunk pig,' my moder she's
say, angry. 'Sick, eh? Lazy, lazy--dat's so. An' dere hain't no fish
for de little chilluns, an' it's Friday mawny.' So my moder she's
begin for cry.
"Well, M'sieu, I'll make de rest short; for de sun is all gone now.
What you tink I do dat mawny? I take de big scoop-net an' I'll come up
here for see if I'll be able for scoop some fish on Jawnny Leroi's
platform. Only dere hain't nev' much fish dere.
"Pretty quick I'll look up and I'll see Alphonsine Seguin scoop, scoop
on my fader's old platform. Alphonsine's fader is sick, sick, same
like my fader, an' all de Seguin boys is too little for scoop, same
like my brudders is too little. So dere Alphonsine she's scoop, scoop
for breakfas'.
"What you tink I'll see some more? I'll see Old Man Savarin. He's
watchin' from de corner of de cedar bush, an' I'll know ver' good what
he's watch for. He's watch for catch my fader go on his own platform.
He's want for learn my fader anoder lesson. _Saprie!_ dat's make me
ver' angry, M'sieu!
"Alphonsine she's scoop, scoop plenty fish. I'll not be scoop none.
Dat's make me more angry. I'll look up where Alphonsine is, an' I'll
talk to myself:--
"'Dat's my fader's platform,' I'll be say. 'Dat's my fader's fish what
you catch, Alphonsine. You hain't nev' be my cousin no more. It is
mean, mean for Frawce Seguin to rent my fader's platform for please
dat old rascal Savarin.' Mebby I'll not be so angry at Alphonsine,
M'sieu, if I was able for catch some fish; but I hain't able--I don't
catch none.
"Well, M'sieu, dat's de way for long time--half-hour mebby. Den I'll
hear Alphonsine yell good. I'll look up de river some more. She's try
for lift her net. She's try hard, hard, but she hain't able. De net is
down in de rapid, an' she's only able for hang on to de hannle. Den
I'll know she's got one big sturgeon, an' he's so big she can't pull
him up.
"_Monjee!_ what I care 'bout dat! I'll laugh me. Den I'll laugh good
some more, for I'll want Alphonsine for see how I'll laugh big. And
I'll talk to myself:--
"'Dat's good for dose Seguins,' I'll say. 'De big sturgeon will pull
away de net. Den Alphonsine she will lose her fader's scoop wis de
sturgeon. Dat's good 'nuff for dose Seguins! Take my fader platform,
eh?'
"For sure, I'll want for go an' help Alphonsine all de same--she's my
cousin, an' I'll want for see de sturgeon, me. But I'll only just
laugh, laugh. _Non, M'sieu_; dere was not one man out on any of de
oder platform dat mawny for to help Alphonsine. Dey was all sleep ver'
late, for dey was all out ver' late for see de offle fight I told you
'bout.
"Well, pretty quick, what you tink? I'll see Old Man Savarin goin' to
my fader's platform. He's take hold for help Alphonsine an' dey's bose
pull, and pretty quick de big sturgeon is up on de platform. I'll be
more angry as before.
"Oh, _tort Dieu!_ What you tink come den? Why, dat Old Man Savarin is
want for take de sturgeon!
"First dey hain't speak so I can hear, for de Rapid is too loud. But
pretty quick dey's bose angry, and I hear dem talk.
"'Dat's my fish,' Old Man Savarin is say. 'Didn't I save him? Wasn't
you goin' for lose him, for sure?'
"Me--I'll laugh good. Dass _such_ an old rascal.
"'You get off dis platform, quick!' Alphonsine she's say.
"'Give me my sturgeon,' he's say.
"'Dat's a lie--it hain't your sturgeon. It's _my_ sturgeon,' she's
yell.
"'I'll learn you one lesson 'bout dat,' he's say.
"Well, M'sieu, Alphonsine she's pull back de fish just when Old Man
Savarin is make one grab. An' when she's pull back, she's step to one
side, an' de old rascal he is, grab at de fish, an' de heft of de
sturgeon is make him fall on his face, so he's tumble in de Rapid when
Alphonsine let go de sturgeon. So dere's Old Man Savarin floating in
de river--and _me_! I'll don' care eef he's drown one bit!
"One time he is on his back, one time he is on his face, one time he
is all under de water. For sure he's goin' for be draw into de
_culbute_ an' get drown' dead, if I'll not be able for scoop him when
he's go by my platform. I'll want for laugh, but I'll be too much
scare.
"Well, M'sieu, I'll pick up my fader's scoop and I'll stand out on de
edge of de platform. De water is run so fast, I'm mos' 'fraid de old
man is boun' for pull me in when I'll scoop him. But I'll not mind for
dat, I'll throw de scoop an' catch him; an' for sure, he's hold on
good.
"So dere's de old rascal in de scoop, but when I'll get him safe, I
hain't able for pull him in one bit. I'll only be able for hold on an'
laugh, laugh--he's look _ver_' queer! All I can do is to hold him dere
so he can't go down de _culbute_. I'll can't pull him up if I'll want
to.
"De old man is scare ver' bad. But pretty quick he's got hold of de
cross-bar of de hoop, an' he's got his ugly old head up good.
"'Pull me in,' he say, ver' angry.
"'I'll hain't be able,' I'll say.
"Jus' den Alphonsine she come 'long, an' she's laugh so she can't
hardly hold on wis me to de hannle. I was laugh good some more. When
de old villain see us have fun, he's yell: 'I'll learn you bose one
lesson for this. Pull me ashore!'
"'Oh! you's learn, us bose one lesson, M'sieu Savarin, eh?' Alphonsine
she's say. 'Well, den, us bose will learn M'sieu Savarin one lesson
first. Pull him up a little,' she's say to me.
"So we pull him up, an' den Alphonsine she's say to me: 'Let out de
hannle, quick'--and he's under de water some more. When we stop de
net, he's got hees head up pretty quick.
"'_Monjee!_ I'll be drown' if you don't pull me out,' he's mos' _cry_.
"'Ver' well--if you's drown, your family be ver' glad,' Alphonsine
she's say. 'Den they's got all your money for spend quick, quick.'
"M'sieu, dat scare him offle. He's begin for cry like one baby.
"'Save me out,' he's say. 'I'll give you anything I've got.'
"'How much?' Alphonsine she's say.
"He's tink, and he's say, 'Quarter dollar.'
"Alphonsine an' me is laugh, laugh.
"'Save me,' he's cry some more. 'I hain't fit for die dis mawny.'
"'You hain' fit for live no mawny,' Alphonsine she's say. 'One quarter
dollar, eh? Where's my sturgeon?'
"'He's got away when, I fall in,' he's say.
"'How much you goin' give me for lose my big sturgeon?' she's ask.
"'How much you'll want, Alphonsine?'
"'Two dollare.'
"'Dat's too much for one sturgeon,' he's say. For all he was not feel
fit for die, he was more 'fraid for pay out his money.
"'Let him down some more,' Alphonsine she's say.
"'Oh. _misère, misère_! I'll pay de two dollare,' he's say when his
head come up some more.
"'Ver' well, den,' Alphonsine she's say; 'I'll be willin' for save
you, _me_. But you hain't scooped by _me_. You's in Marie's net. I'll
only come for help Marie. You's her sturgeon;' an' Alphonsine she's
laugh an' laugh.
"'I didn't lose no sturgeon for Marie,' he's say.
"'No, eh?" I'll say mysef. 'But you's steal my fader's platform. You's
take his fishin' place. You's got him fined two times. You's make my
moder pay his bill wis _my_ weddin' money. What you goin' pay for all
dat? You tink I'll be goin' for mos' kill mysef pullin' you out for
noting? When you ever do someting for anybody for noting, eh, M'sieu
Savarin?'
"'How much you want?' he's say.
"'Ten dollare for de platform, dat's all.'
"'Never--dat's robbery,' he's say, an' he's begin to cry like _ver_'
li'll baby.
"'Pull him hup, Marie, an' give him some more,' Alphonsine she's say.
"But de old rascal is so scare 'bout dat, dat he's say he's pay right
off. So we's pull him up near to de platform, only we hain't big 'nuff
fool for let him out of de net till he's take out his purse an' pay de
twelve dollare.
"_Monjee_, M'sieu! If ever you see one angry old rascal! He not even
stop for say: 'T'ank you for save me from be drown' dead in the
_culbute_!' He's run for his house an' he's put on dry clo'es, an'
he's go up to de magistrate first ting for learn me an' Alphonsine one
big lesson.
"But de magistrate hain' ver' bad magistrate. He's only laugh an' he's
say:--
"'M'sieu Savarin, de whole river will be laugh at you for let two
young girl take eet out of smart man like you like dat. Hain't you
tink your life worth twelve dollare? Didn't dey save you from de
_culbute_? _Monjee!_ I'll tink de whole river not laugh so ver' bad if
you pay dose young girl one hunder dollare for save you so kind.'
"'One hunder dollare!' he's mos' cry. 'Hain't you goin' to learn dose
girl one lesson for take advantage of me dat way?'
"'Didn't you pay dose girl yoursef? Didn't you took out your purse
yoursef? Yes, eh? Well, den, I'll goin' for learn you one lesson
yoursef, M'sieu Savarin.' de magistrate is say. 'Dose two young girl
is ver' wicked, eh? Yes, dat's so. But for why? Hain't dey just do to
you what you been doin' ever since you was in beesness? Don' I know?
You hain' never yet got advantage of nobody wisout you rob him all you
can, an' dose wicked young girl only act just like you give dem a
lesson all your life.'
* * * * *
"An' de best fun was de whole river _did_ laugh at M'sieu Savarin. An'
my fader and Frawce Seguin is laugh most of all, till he's catch hup
wis bose of dem anoder time. You come for see me some more, an' I'll
tol' you 'bout dat."
THE PRIVILEGE OF THE LIMITS.
"Yes, indeed, my grandfather wass once in jail," said old Mrs.
McTavish, of the county of Glengarry, in Ontario, Canada; "but that
wass for debt, and he wass a ferry honest man whateffer, and he would
not broke his promise--no, not for all the money in Canada. If you
will listen to me, I will tell chust exactly the true story about that
debt, to show you what an honest man my grandfather wass.
"One time Tougal Stewart, him that wass the poy's grandfather that
keeps the same store in Cornwall to this day, sold a plough to my
grandfather, and my grandfather said he would pay half the plough in
October, and the other half whateffer time he felt able to pay the
money. Yes, indeed, that was the very promise my grandfather gave.
"So he was at Tougal Stewart's store on the first of October early in
the morning pefore the shutters wass taken off, and he paid half chust
exactly to keep his word. Then the crop wass ferry pad next year, and
the year after that one of his horses wass killed py lightning, and
the next year his brother, that wass not rich and had a big family,
died, and do you think wass my grandfather to let the family be
disgraced without a good funeral? No, indeed. So my grandfather paid
for the funeral, and there was at it plenty of meat and drink for
eferypody, as wass the right Hielan' custom those days; and after the
funeral my grandfather did not feel chust exactly able to pay the
other half for the plough that year either.
"So, then, Tougal Stewart met my grandfather in Cornwall next day
after the funeral, and asked him if he had some money to spare.
"'Wass you in need of help, Mr. Stewart?' says my grandfather, kindly.
'For if it's in any want you are, Tougal,' says my grandfather, 'I
will sell the coat off my back, if there is no other way to lend you a
loan;' for that was always the way of my grandfather with all his
friends, and a bigger-hearted man there never wass in all Glengarry,
or in Stormont, or in Dundas, moreofer.
"'In want!' says Tougal--'in want, Mr. McTavish!' says he, very high.
'Would you wish to insult a gentleman, and him of the name of Stewart,
that's the name of princes of the world?' he said, so he did.
"Seeing Tougal had his temper up, my grandfather spoke softly, being a
quiet, peaceable man, and in wonder what he had said to offend Tougal.
"'Mr. Stewart,' says my grandfather, 'it wass not in my mind to anger
you whatefer. Only I thought, from your asking me if I had some money,
that you might be looking for a wee bit of a loan, as many a gentleman
has to do at times, and no shame to him at all,' said my grandfather.
"'A loan?' says Tougal, sneering. 'A loan, is it? Where's your memory,
Mr. McTavish? Are you not owing me half the price of the plough you've
had these three years?'
"'And wass you asking me for money for the other half of the plough?'
says my grandfather, very astonished.
"'Just that,' says Tougal.
"'Have you no shame or honor in you?' says my grandfather, firing up.
'How could I feel able to pay that now, and me chust yesterday been
giving my poor brother a funeral fit for the McTavishes' own
grand-nephew, that wass as good chentleman's plood as any Stewart in
Glengarry. You saw the expense I wass at, for there you wass, and I
thank you for the politeness of coming, Mr. Stewart,' says my
grandfather, ending mild, for the anger would never stay in him more
than a minute, so kind was the nature he had.
"'If you can spend money on a funeral like that, you can pay me for my
plough,' says Stewart; for with buying and selling he wass become a
poor creature, and the heart of a Hielan'man wass half gone out of
him, for all he wass so proud of his name of monarchs and kings.
"My grandfather had a mind to strike him down on the spot, so he often
said; but he thought of the time when he hit Hamish Cochrane in anger,
and he minded the penances the priest put on him for breaking the
silly man's jaw with that blow, so he smothered the heat that wass in
him, and turned away in scorn. With that Tougal Stewart went to court,
and sued my grandfather, puir mean creature.
"You might think that Judge Jones--him that wass judge in Cornwall
before Judge Jarvis that's dead--would do justice. But no, he made it
the law that my grandfather must pay at once, though Tougal Stewart
could not deny what the bargain wass.
"'Your Honor,' says my grandfather, 'I said I'd pay when I felt able.
And do I feel able now? No, I do not,' says he. 'It's a disgrace to
Tougal Stewart to ask me, and himself telling you what the bargain
was,' said my grandfather. But Judge Jones said that he must pay, for
all that he did not feel able.
"'I will nefer pay one copper till I feel able,' says my grandfather;
'but I'll keep my Hielan' promise to my dying day, as I always done,'
says he.
"And with that the old judge laughed, and said he would have to give
judgment. And so he did; and after that Tougal Stewart got out an
execution. But not the worth of a handful of oatmeal could the bailiff
lay hands on, because my grandfather had chust exactly taken the
precaution to give a bill of sale on his gear to his neighbor,
Alexander Frazer, that could be trusted to do what was right after the
law play was over.
"The whole settlement had great contempt for Tougal Stewart's conduct;
but he was a headstrong body, and once he begun to do wrong against
my grandfather, he held on, for all that his trade fell away; and
finally he had my grandfather arrested for debt, though you'll
understand, sir, that he was owing Stewart nothing that he ought to
pay when he didn't feel able.
"In those times prisoners for debt was taken to jail in Cornwall, and
if they had friends to give bail that they would not go beyond the
posts that was around the sixteen acres nearest the jail walls, the
prisoners could go where they liked on that ground. This was called
'the privilege of the limits.' The limits, you'll understand, wass
marked by cedar posts painted white about the size of hitching-posts.
"The whole settlement was ready to go bail for my grandfather if he
wanted it, and for the health of him he needed to be in the open air,
and so he gave Tuncan-Macdonnell of the Greenfields, and Æneas
Macdonald of the Sandfields, for his bail, and he promised, on his
Hielan' word of honor, not to go beyond the posts. With that he went
where he pleased, only taking care that he never put even the toe of
his foot beyond a post, for all that some prisoners of the limits
would chump ofer them and back again, or maybe swing round them,
holding by their hands.
"Efery day the neighbors would go into Cornwall to give my grandfather
the good word, and they would offer to pay Tougal Stewart for the
other half of the plough, only that vexed my grandfather, for he was
too proud to borrow, and, of course, every day he felt less and less
able to pay on account of him having to hire a man to be doing the
spring ploughing and seeding and making the kale-yard.
"All this time, you'll mind, Tougal Stewart had to pay five shillings
a week for my grandfather's keep, the law being so that if the debtor
swore he had not five pound's worth of property to his name, then the
creditor had to pay the five shillings, and, of course, my grandfather
had nothing to his name after he gave the bill of sale to Alexander
Frazer. A great diversion it was to my grandfather to be reckoning up
that if he lived as long as his father, that was hale and strong at
ninety-six, Tougal would need to pay five or six hundred pounds for
him, and there was only two pound five shillings to be paid on the
plough.
"So it was like that all summer, my grandfather keeping heartsome,
with the neighbors coming in so steady to bring him the news of the
settlement. There he would sit, just inside one of the posts, for to
pass his jokes, and tell what he wished the family to be doing next.
This way it might have kept going on for forty years, only it came
about that my grandfather's youngest child--him that was my
father--fell sick, and seemed like to die.
"Well, when my grandfather heard that bad news, he wass in a terrible
way, to be sure, for he would be longing to hold the child in his
arms, so that his heart was sore and like to break. Eat he could not,
sleep he could not: all night he would be groaning, and all day he
would be walking around by the posts, wishing that he had not passed
his Hielan' word of honor not to go beyond a post; for he thought how
he could have broken out like a chentleman, and gone to see his sick
child, if he had stayed inside the jail wall. So it went on three days
and three nights pefore the wise thought came into my grandfather's
head to show him how he need not go beyond the posts to see his little
sick poy. With that he went straight to one of the white cedar posts,
and pulled it up out of the hole, and started for home, taking great
care to carry it in his hands pefore him, so he would not be beyond it
one bit.
"My grandfather wass not half a mile out of Cornwall, which was only a
little place in those days, when two of the turnkeys came after him.
"'Stop, Mr. McTavish,' says the turnkeys.
"'What for would I stop?' says my grandfather.
"'You have broke your bail,' says they.
"'It's a lie for you,' says my grandfather, for his temper flared up
for anybody to say he would broke his bail. 'Am I beyond the post?'
says my grandfather.
"With that they run in on him, only that he knocked the two of them
over with the post, and went on rejoicing, like an honest man should,
at keeping his word and overcoming them that would slander his good
name. The only thing pesides thoughts of the child that troubled him
was questioning whether he had been strictly right in turning round
for to use the post to defend himself in such a way that it was nearer
the jail than what he wass. But when he remembered how the jailer
never complained of prisoners of the limits chumping ofer the posts,
if so they chumped back again in a moment, the trouble went out of his
mind.
"Pretty soon after that he met Tuncan Macdonnell of Greenfields,
coming into Cornwall with the wagon.
"'And how is this, Glengatchie?' says Tuncan. 'For you were never the
man to broke your bail.'
"Glengatchie, you'll understand, sir, is the name of my grandfather's
farm.
"'Never fear, Greenfields,' says my grandfather, 'for I'm not beyond
the post.'
"So Greenfields looked at the post, and he looked at my grandfather,
and he scratched his head a wee, and he seen it was so; and then he
fell into a great admiration entirely.
"'Get in with me, Glengatchie--it's proud I'll be to carry you home;'
and he turned his team around. My grandfather did so, taking great
care to keep the post in front of him all the time; and that way he
reached home. Out comes my grandmother running to embrace him; but she
had to throw her arms around the post and my grandfather's neck at the
same time, he was that strict to be within his promise. Pefore going
ben the house, he went to the back end of the kale-yard which was
farthest from the jail, and there he stuck the post; and then he went
back to see his sick child, while all the neighbors that came round
was glad to see what a wise thought the saints had put into his mind
to save his bail and his promise.
"So there he stayed a week till my father got well. Of course the
constables came after my grandfather, but the settlement would not let
the creatures come within a mile of Glengatchie. You might think, sir,
that my grandfather would have stayed with his wife and weans, seeing
the post was all the time in the kale-yard, and him careful not to go
beyond it; but he was putting the settlement to a great deal of
trouble day and night to keep the constables off, and he was fearful
that they might take the post away, if ever they got to Glengatchie,
and give him the name of false, that no McTavish ever had. So Tuncan
Greenfields and Æneas Sandfield drove my grandfather back to the jail,
him with the post behind him in the wagon, so as he would be between
it and the jail. Of course Tougal Stewart tried his best to have the
bail declared forfeited; but old Judge Jones only laughed, and said
my grandfather was a Hielan' gentleman, with a very nice sense of
honor, and that was chust exactly the truth.
"How did my grandfather get free in the end? Oh, then, that was
because of Tougal Stewart being careless--him that thought he knew so
much of the law. The law was, you will mind, that Tougal had to pay
five shillings a week for keeping my grandfather in the limits. The
money wass to be paid efery Monday, and it was to be paid in lawful
money of Canada, too. Well, would you belief that Tougal paid in four
shillings in silver one Monday, and one shilling in coppers, for he
took up the collection in church the day pefore, and it wass not till
Tougal had gone away that the jailer saw that one of the coppers was a
Brock copper,--a medal, you will understand, made at General Brock's
death, and not lawful money of Canada at all. With that the jailer
came out to my grandfather.
"'Mr. McTavish,' says he, taking off his hat, 'you are a free man, and
I'm glad of it.' Then he told him what Tougal had done.
"'I hope you will not have any hard feelings toward me, Mr. McTavish,'
said the jailer; and a decent man he wass, for all that there wass not
a drop of Hielan' blood in him. 'I hope you will not think hard of me
for not being hospitable to you, sir,' says he; 'but it's against the
rules and regulations for the jailer to be offering the best he can
command to the prisoners. Now that you are free, Mr. McTavish,' says
the jailer, 'I would be a proud man if Mr. McTavish of Glengatchie
would do me the honor of taking supper with me this night. I will be
asking your leave to invite some of the gentlemen of the place, if you
will say the word, Mr. McTavish,' says he.
"Well, my grandfather could never bear malice, the kind man he was,
and he seen how bad the jailer felt, so he consented, and a great
company came in, to be sure, to celebrate the occasion.
"Did my grandfather pay the balance on the plough? What for should you
suspicion, sir, that my grandfather would refuse his honest debt? Of
course he paid for the plough, for the crop was good that fall.
"'I would be paying you the other half of the plough now, Mr.
Stewart,' says my grandfather, coming in when the store was full.
"'Hoich, but YOU are the honest McTavish!' says Tougal, sneering.
"But my grandfather made no answer to the creature, for he thought it
would be unkind to mention how Tougal had paid out six pounds four
shillings and eleven pence to keep him in on account of a debt of two
pound five that never was due till it was paid."
McGRATH'S BAD NIGHT.
"Come then, childer," said Mrs. McGrath, and took the big iron pot
off. They crowded around her, nine of them, the eldest not more than
thirteen, the youngest just big enough to hold out his yellow crockery
bowl.
"The youngest first," remarked Mrs. McGrath, and ladled out a portion
of the boiled corn-meal to each of the deplorable boys and girls.
Before they reached the stools from which they had sprung up, or
squatted again on the rough floor, they all burned their mouths in
tasting the mush too eagerly. Then there they sat, blowing into their
bowls, glaring into them, lifting their loaded iron spoons
occasionally to taste cautiously, till the mush had somewhat cooled.
Then, _gobble-de-gobble-de-gobble_, it was all gone! Though they had
neither sugar, nor milk, nor butter to it, they found it a remarkably
excellent sample of mush, and wished only that, in quantity, it had
been something more.
Peter McGrath sat close beside the cooking-stove, holding Number Ten,
a girl-baby, who was asleep, and rocking Number Eleven, who was trying
to wake up, in the low, unpainted cradle. He never took his eyes off
Number Eleven; he could not bear to look around and see the nine
devouring the corn-meal so hungrily. Perhaps McGrath could not, and
certainly he would not,--he was so obstinate,--have told why he felt
so reproached by the scene. He had felt very guilty for many weeks.
Twenty, yes, a hundred times a day he looked in a dazed way at his big
hands, and they reproached him, too, that they had no work.
"Where is our smooth, broad-axe handle?" asked the fingers, "and why
do not the wide chips fly?"
He was ashamed, too, every time he rose up, so tall and strong, with
nothing to do, and eleven children and his wife next door to
starvation; but if he had been asked to describe his feelings, he
would merely have growled out angrily something against old John
Pontiac.
"You'll take your sup now, Peter?" asked Mrs. McGrath, offering him
the biggest of the yellow bowls. He looked up then, first at her
forlorn face, then at the pot. Number Nine was diligently scraping off
some streaks of mush that had run down the outside; Numbers Eight,
Seven, Six, and Five were looking respectfully into the pot; Numbers
Four, Three, Two, and One were watching the pot, the steaming bowl,
and their father at the same time. Peter McGrath was very hungry.
"Yourself had better eat, Mary Ann," he said. "I'll be having mine
after it's cooler."
Mrs. McGrath dipped more than a third of the bowlful back into the
pot, and ate the rest with much satisfaction. The numerals watched her
anxiously but resignedly.
"Sure it'll be cold entirely, Peter dear," she said, "and the warmth
is so comforting. Give me little Norah now, the darlint! and be after
eating your supper."
She had ladled out the last spoonful of mush, and the pot was being
scraped inside earnestly by Nine, Eight, Seven, and Six. Peter took
the bowl, and looked at his children.
The earlier numbers were observing him with peculiar sympathy, putting
themselves in his place, as it were, possessing the bowl in
imagination; the others now moved their spoons absent-mindedly around
in the pot, brought them empty to their mouths, mechanically, now and
again, sucked them more or less, and still stared steadily at their
father.
His inner walls felt glued together, yet indescribably hollow; the
smell of the mush went up into his nostrils, and pungently provoked
his palate and throat. He was famishing.
"Troth, then, Mary Ann," he said, "there's no hunger in me to-night.
Sure, I wish the childer wouldn't leave me the trouble of eating it.
Come, then, all of ye!"
The nine came promptly to his call. There were just twenty-two large
spoonfuls in the bowl; each child received two; the remaining four
went to the four youngest. Then the bowl was skilfully scraped by
Number Nine, after which Number Seven took it, whirled a cup of water
artfully round its interior, and with this put a fine finish on his
meal.
Peter McGrath then searched thoughtfully in his trousers pockets,
turning their corners up, getting pinches of tobacco dust out of their
remotest recesses; he put his blouse pocket through a similar process.
He found no pockets in his well-patched overcoat when he took it down,
but he pursued the dust into its lining, and separated it carefully
from little dabs of wool. Then he put the collection into an extremely
old black clay pipe, lifted a coal in with his fingers, and took his
supper.
It would be absurd to assert that, on this continent, a strong man
could be so poor as Peter, unless he had done something very wrong or
very foolish. Peter McGrath was, in truth, out of work because he had
committed an outrage on economics. He had been guilty of the enormous
error of misunderstanding, and trying to set at naught in his own
person, the immutable law of supply and demand.
Fancying that a first-class hewer in a timber shanty had an
inalienable right to receive at least thirty dollars a month, when the
demand was only strong enough to yield him twenty-two dollars a month,
Peter had refused to engage at the beginning of the winter.
"Now, Mr. McGrath, you're making a mistake," said his usual employer,
old John Pontiac. "I'm offering you the best wages going, mind that.
There's mighty little squared timber coming out this winter."
"I'm ready and willing to work, boss, but I'm fit to arn thirty
dollars, surely."
"So you are, so you are, in good times, neighbor, and I'd be glad if
men's wages were forty. That could only be with trade active, and a
fine season for all of us; but I couldn't take out a raft this winter,
and pay what you ask."
"I'd work extra hard. I'm not afeard of work."
"Not you, Peter. There never was a lazy bone in your body. Don't I
know that well? But look, now: if I was to pay you thirty, I should
have to pay all the other hewers thirty; and that's not all. Scorers
and teamsters and road-cutters are used to getting wages in proportion
to hewers. Why, it would cost me a thousand dollars a month to give
you thirty! Go along, now, that's a good fellow, and tell your wife
that you've hired with me."
But Peter did not go back. "I'm bound to have my rights, so I am," he
said sulkily to Mary Ann when he reached the cabin. "The old boss is
getting too hard like, and set on money. Twenty-two dollars! No! I'll
go in to Stambrook and hire."
Mary Ann knew that she might as well try to convince a saw-log that
its proper course was up-stream, as to protest against Peter's
obstinacy. Moreover, she did think the offered wages very low, and had
some hope he might better himself; but when he came back from
Stambrook, she saw trouble ahead. He did not tell her that there,
where his merit's were not known, he had been offered only twenty
dollars, but she surmised his disappointment.
"You'd better be after seeing the boss again, maybe, Peter dear," she
said timidly.
"Not a step," he answered. "The boss'll be after me in a few days,
you'll see." But there he was mistaken, for all the gangs were full.
After that Peter McGrath tramped far and wide, to many a backwoods
hamlet, looking vainly for a job at any wages. The season was the
worst ever known on the river, and before January the shanties were
discharging men, so threatening was the outlook for lumbermen, and so
glutted with timber the markets of the world.
Peter's conscience accused him every hour, but he was too stubborn to
go back to John Pontiac. Indeed, he soon got it into his stupid head
that the old boss was responsible for his misfortunes, and he
consequently came to hate Mr. Pontiac very bitterly.
After supping on his pipeful of tobacco-dust, Peter sat,
straight-backed, leaning elbows on knees and chin on hands, wondering
what on earth was to become of them all next day. For a man out of
work there was not a dollar of credit at the little village store; and
work! why, there was only one kind of work at which money could be
earned in that district in the winter.
When his wife took Number Eleven's cradle into the other room, she
heard him, through the thin partition of upright boards, pasted over
with newspapers, moving round in the dim red flickering fire-light
from the stove-grating.
The children were all asleep, or pretending it; Number Ten in the big
straw bed, where she lay always between her parents; Number Eleven in
her cradle beside; Nine crosswise at the foot; Eight, Seven, Six,
Five, and Four in the other bed; One, Two, and Three curled up,
without taking off their miserable garments, on the "locks" of straw
beside the kitchen stove.
Mary Ann knew very well what Peter was moving round for. She heard him
groan, so low that he did not know he groaned, when he lifted off the
cover of the meal barrel, and could feel nothing whatever therein. She
had actually beaten the meal out of the cracks to make that last pot
of mush. He knew that all the fish he had salted down in the summer
were gone, that the flour was all out, that the last morsel of the pig
had been eaten up long ago; but he went to each of the barrels as
though he could not realize that there was really nothing left. There
were four of those low groans.
"O God, help him! do help him! please do!" she kept saying to
herself. Somehow, all her sufferings and the children's were light to
her, in comparison, as she listened to that big, taciturn man groan,
and him sore with the hunger.
When at last she came out, Peter was not there. He had gone out
silently, so silently that she wondered, and was scared. She opened
the door very softly, and there he was, leaning on the rail fence
between their little rocky plot and the great river. She closed the
door softly, and sat down.
There was a wide steaming space in the river, where the current ran
too swiftly for any ice to form. Peter gazed on it for a long while.
The mist had a friendly look; he was soon reminded of the steam from
an immense bowl of mush! It vexed him. He looked up at the moon. The
moon was certainly mocking him; dashing through light clouds, then
jumping into a wide, clear space, where it soon became motionless, and
mocked him steadily.
He had never known old John Pontiac to jeer any one, but there was his
face in that moon,--Peter made it out quite clearly. He looked up the
road to where he could see, on the hill half a mile distant, the
shimmer of John Pontiac's big tin-roofed house. He thought he could
make out the outlines of all the buildings,--he knew them so
well,--the big barn, the stable, the smoke-house, the store-house for
shanty supplies.
Pork barrels, flour barrels, herring kegs, syrup kegs, sides of frozen
beef, hams and flitches of bacon in the smoke-house, bags of beans,
chests of tea,--he had a vision of them all! Teamsters going off to
the woods daily with provisions, the supply apparently inexhaustible.
And John Pontiac had refused to pay him fair wages!
Peter in exasperation shook his big fist at the moon; it mocked him
worse than ever. Then out went his gaze to the space of mist; it was
still more painfully like mush steam. His pigsty was empty, except of
snow; it made him think again of the empty barrels in the cabin.
The children empty too, or would be to-morrow,--as empty as he felt
that minute. How dumbly the elder ones would reproach him! and what
would comfort the younger ones crying with hunger?
Peter looked again up the hill, through the walls of the store-house.
He was dreadfully hungry.
* * * * *
"John! John!" Mrs. Pontiac jogged her husband. "John, wake up! there's
somebody trying to get into the smoke-house."
"Eh--ugh--ah! I'm 'sleep--ugh." He relapsed again.
"John! John! wake up! There _is_ somebody!"
"What--ugh--eh--what you say?"
"There's somebody getting into the smoke-house."
"Well, there's not much there."
"There's ever so much bacon and ham. Then there's the store-house
open."
"Oh, I guess there's nobody."
"But there is, I'm sure. You must get up!"
They both got up and looked out of the window. The snow-drifts, the
paths through them, the store-house, the smoke-house, and the other
white-washed out-buildings could be seen as clearly as in broad day.
The smoke-house door was open!
Old John Pontiac was one of the kindest souls that ever inhabited a
body, but this was a little too much. Still he was sorry for the man,
no matter who, in that smoke-house,--some Indian probably. He must be
caught and dealt with firmly; but he did not want the man to be too
much hurt.
He put on his clothes and sallied forth. He reached the smoke-house;
there was no one in it; there was a gap, though, where two long
flitches of bacon _had_ been!
John Pontiac's wife saw him go over to the store-house, the door of
which was open too. He looked in, then stopped, and started back as if
in horror. Two flitches tied together with a rope were on the floor,
and inside was a man filling a bag with flour from a barrel.
"Well, well! this is a terrible thing," said old John Pontiac to
himself, shrinking around a corner. "Peter McGrath! Oh, my! oh, my!"
He became hot all over, as if he had done something disgraceful
himself. There was nobody that he respected more than that pigheaded
Peter. What to do? He must punish him of course; but how? Jail--for
him with eleven children! "Oh, my! oh, my!" Old John wished he had not
been awakened to see this terrible downfall.
"It will never do to let him go off with it," he said to himself after
a little reflection. "I'll put him so that he'll know better another
time."
Peter McGrath, as he entered the store-house had felt that bacon
heavier than the heaviest end of the biggest stick of timber he had
ever helped to cant. He felt guilty, sneaking, disgraced; he felt that
the literal Devil had first tempted him near the house, then all
suddenly--with his own hunger pangs and thoughts of his starving
family--swept him into the smoke-house to steal. But he had consented
to do it; he had said he would take flour too,--and he would, he was
so obstinate! And withal, he hated old John Pontiac worse than ever;
for now he accused him of being the cause of his coming to this.
Then all of a sudden he met the face of Pontiac looking in at the
door.