A LOAD OF GRAPES
When the boys reached the house they found Mrs. Kimball just putting
supper on the table. There was a delicious smell, which Roger at first
did not recognize.
"Hurrah!" cried Adrian. "That's what I like!"
"What?"
"Fried chicken and corn bread. Can't anybody beat mother at that."
"Nor at anything else in the cooking line, I guess," agreed Roger.
The two boys made short work of washing up and combing their hair, and
when they hurried down to the kitchen they had hungry looks that did
Mrs. Kimball good to see.
"I can't abide a poor eater," she said, as she heaped Roger's plate with
the crisp brown chicken, fried in sweet butter, and handed him a plate
of smoking hot golden-yellow corn bread. "I do like t' see a body pitch
in 'n' eat th' victuals set afore 'em," she went on. "After a body goes
t' work 'n' gits up a good meal, it's mighty disparagin' t' see th'
things scorned down on. I'm glad t' see ye eat, Roger. Yer appetite's
improved wonderful already. Yer uncle 'n' cousin usually don't need
much urgin' in th' eatin' line," she added significantly, as she
glanced at her husband's and son's well-heaped plates.
"I guess not," mumbled Mr. Kimball, picking up a nicely browned wing,
and munching it with every indication of enjoyment. "I guess not, Mrs.
Kimball."
Clara and her mother now sat down, and the meal progressed merrily.
Roger almost forgot the homesickness that had twinged him once or twice
during the day. The supper was about over when some one knocked at the
kitchen door, opening it at the same time and calling out:
"I brought your mail, neighbor Kimball."
"Thanks, Enberry," said the farmer, as he got up to take several letters
which Mr. Took had brought from the post-office. "Won't ye set down 'n'
hev a bite, Enberry?"
"No, thanks; got t' do my chores yit. How's th' drowned boy?"
"Oh, I'm all right," called out Roger, "and I'm much obliged for getting
me home so quick."
"Allers willin' t' do a neighborly turn," said Mr. Took, as he went out.
"Hello!" exclaimed Roger's uncle, looking at the addresses on the
envelopes by the light of the kerosene lamp, "Hello! Here's a letter for
you, Mr. Roger Anderson."
"It's from mother," cried the boy, as he caught sight of the beloved
writing, and for a few minutes he paid no attention to what went on
around him, as he read the news from the dear ones at home. It told him
all were well, and how they missed him greatly.
"Take good care of yourself," Mrs. Anderson wrote, "and, though I shall
miss you very much, though we all miss you, we hope your visit to
Cardiff will do you good."
There was a little mist in the boy's eyes as he saw, in memory, the
pleasant little circle about the table at home; his father reading, his
mother sewing, and the baby building a wonderful house of blocks.
"Wa'al, what's th' news?" asked Mr. Kimball, in his deep hearty voice,
and Roger told him what his mother had written.
It was not long before supper was over, and, while Mrs. Kimball and
Clara were clearing away the dishes, Roger, with his uncle and cousin,
went out to the barn, where, by the light of a lantern, the two wagons
were loaded up, ready for an early start on the next day's trip. Mr.
Kimball was to take his own horses and wagon to Syracuse with a load of
produce, while Roger and Adrian would have Truem Wright's rig.
The last basket of grapes, the last crate of honey, and the celery,
potatoes, and cabbage had been piled securely on the vehicles. Mr.
Kimball pulled out his big silver watch.
"Hello!" he cried. "Nine o'clock. Time to go t' bed, fer we'll hev t' be
up early in th' mornin'. Skedaddle, all on ye!"
The boys hurried to the house, laughing and shouting in anticipation of
the pleasant trip next day.
That night Roger dreamed he was swimming in a big green pond, while a
swarm of bees carrying bunches of grapes flew buzzing after him. He
thought a whole hive of the insects were about to settle down on him,
when he was caught by a big fish that shook him in its mouth as a dog
might a rat. Then he awoke suddenly to find that the shaking was being
done by his cousin Adrian, who stood bending over him, pulling him by
the arm. A lamp burned in the room.
"What's the matter? Is the house afire?" asked Roger, as he jumped up in
alarm.
"Land sakes, no," said Adrian, "but if we're going to Tully with the
grapes, we'll have to start pretty soon. Dad went some time ago. Dress,
and we'll have breakfast."
Roger looked out of the window while putting his clothes on. It was just
getting faintly light, and some stars were still to be seen. From the
kitchen there came the good smell of hot coffee and buckwheat cakes with
fried sausage, and Roger knew his aunt was up.
While the boys were eating the excellent breakfast Mrs. Kimball set on
the table, she put them up a good lunch in a basket, as they would not
be home to dinner. In a short time they were ready for the start, and
the wagon clattered out the side yard, Adrian driving the big white
horse.
It was a pleasant trip to Tully, a town about eight miles from Cardiff.
The first part of the journey was along the valley road, but at the
upper end of this there began an ascent, which led up a steep hill to a
sort of plateau on the small mountain top.
Past the scattered farmhouses they drove in the early dawn, and they
had proceeded nearly a mile before the sun peeped up smiling from behind
the hills, to send the gray, misty fog swirling lazily upward. The white
horse pulled nobly up the incline, stopping now and then to rest at the
"thank-'e-ma'ams," as certain places in the road were called; being
mounds of earth dug across the highway, designed to prevent the too
sudden rush of water down the hill during a rain. These hummocks served
to divert the water to one side like a gutter, and also made good
resting places, for they held the rear wheels of the wagon. At length
the boys reached the top of the hill and started off on a level stretch
for Tully, where Andrews Brothers had a store, at which Mr. Kimball sold
considerable produce.
James Andrews, one of the brothers, was arranging some barrels of apples
outside the place when Adrian drove up.
"Good morning, Mr. Andrews," called Adrian.
"Same to you," replied the store-keeper, heartily. "What brings you over
here so early?"
"I've got that load of grapes you ordered of my father."
"Load of grapes?" with a puzzled air.
"Yes. Father got your letter, and he didn't have time to come over
himself to-day, so I made the trip."
"But I didn't order any grapes--Oh, yes, I did, come to think of it;
but, Ade, I didn't want 'em until next week. I said so in my letter.
Let's see, to-day is the 18th. I ordered 'em for the 26th. Can't
possibly use 'em this week, for I've got all I need. Sorry," as he saw
the disappointed look on the boy's face. "Just tell your father if he
looks at my letter he'll see I asked him to send a load over next week.
Better try some of the other stores, they might need 'em."
"Well," said Adrian, slowly, "I s'pose you're right, Mr. Andrews, and
father must have read your letter wrong. So I guess the only thing to do
is to try to get rid of this load over at Smith's or Brown's."
"Don't forget I 'll want some a week from to-day," cautioned Mr. Andrews
as Adrian drove off. "Be sure and tell your father."
"I will," called back Adrian.
Two rather sober-faced boys watched the white horse slowly jog along the
Tully street. They had expected to unload the grapes, get the money and
have a nice drive back, taking their time. But the wrong date had upset
their plans. However there was a chance that Mr. Brown or Mr. Smith
might need grapes, and the prospect of selling their produce there
brightened matters for a little while. But their hopes were soon
shattered, for, at both places, the supply of this fruit was large
enough to last several days, though both proprietors said they would be
in the market next week.
"Well," said Roger, slowly, as they turned about from a visit to the
last store, "I suppose the only thing to do is to go back home."
"What? And with this load of grapes unsold?" exclaimed Adrian. "Not
much! I came to Tully to sell them, and I'm going to do it."
"How?"
"By peddling them from house to house. Dad expects me back with the
money for these, and I'm going to bring it if I can. You needn't help if
you don't want to. I suppose you're not used to peddling, but I've done
it before."
"Well, I guess I will help," replied Roger, a little hurt to think that
his cousin felt he wouldn't stand by him in an emergency. "Here, we'll
drive along, and I'll take one side of the street, and you can go on the
other."
"That'll be just the thing," said Adrian.
So the two boys started in to get rid of the fruit. They went from house
to house, carrying the baskets with the covers off to show the big red,
white, and purple clusters. They inquired politely of the villagers
whether they didn't need some freshly picked grapes, at ten or fifteen
cents a basket, and, before they had been in half a dozen places each
one had sold four. The bony old white horse jogged slowly along the
road, contentedly stopping now and then to nibble a sweet bunch of
grass.
At first Roger was a little bashful about going to houses peddling, for
he had never done that sort of thing before. But he soon got the knack
of it, and, though at several places the old ladies said they thought
they wanted no fruit that day, he didn't mind the refusals. Adrian had
good luck on his side of the road, and sold many baskets. By noon they
had gone over all of the main and only street in Tully, and had disposed
of a little more than half the load.
"I guess we can't sell any more here," said Adrian as he counted over
his money.
"What'll we do? Go back home?"
"No, I guess we'll push on to Dagman's Corners. That's only four miles
farther, and we can peddle some on the way. But, come to think of it,
I'm hungry. Ain't you?"
"A little bit," admitted Roger with a laugh.
So the boys drove a short way out of the village, and pulled the white
horse up along side of a grassy bank. After Adrian had fixed the oats,
which they had brought with them, so that the patient nag could eat, he
opened the lunch his mother had put up for him and Roger. There was a
clear spring of water near by, and from this the boys and the horse
drank. It was like a picnic instead of work, Roger thought, as he
breathed in the pure, cool air, and felt his cheeks glowing in the
October sun.
The meal over they took a brief rest, and then resumed the trip. In the
next village they succeeded in disposing of all the remaining grapes,
the dusty miller of the town taking the last four baskets. Thus, with
about fifteen dollars snugly tucked away in his pocket, Adrian felt that
he and Roger had accomplished something worth while, for he had received
a little higher price for the fruit by peddling it around than if he had
sold it to Mr. Andrews, who would have paid wholesale rates, while the
boys had done business at retail.
"I don't call this bad," commented Adrian as he turned the horse for the
journey home.
"I should say not," agreed Roger, heartily.
It was the first time he had ever taken an active part in any real
business transactions, and it made him want to do more in that line when
he saw how self-reliant Adrian had been in the trading.
When the boys reached Tully on the return trip it was five o'clock. They
had eight miles to drive, but, as Adrian knew the road, he didn't mind
the gathering darkness, though to Roger it seemed strange, for he had
never driven in the country after nightfall. In the city it was very
light after dark, but here in Cardiff it was almost as black as ink when
twilight had faded, for there were no street lamps to dispel the gloom.
It was mostly down-hill going now, and the old white horse, knowing his
stable and a manger full of oats was ahead of him, jogged rapidly along.
It grew darker and darker, until, when they reached the top of the long
slope of Tully hill, the last vestige of the slanting rays of the sun
disappeared, and night had settled down. Calling cheerfully to the horse
Adrian whistled a merry tune, and Roger joined in. Then they talked of
various topics,--of the success of their trip, and what they would do
to-morrow and next day.
"That's the last house in the village of Tully," said Adrian, suddenly,
indicating a lonely cabin. "Pete Hallenbeck lives there, but he can't be
home to-night, or there'd be a light in the window. He's lived all alone
since his wife died. After we pass this there's not a place where
anybody lives for three miles, until we get to the edge of Cardiff."
They went along for a mile or so, whistling and singing. Suddenly there
was a jolt of the wagon, and Roger, who was sitting well toward the
front of the seat, felt himself thrown forward with considerable force.
Instinctively he stuck out his hands, and he felt them strike the broad
haunches of the horse. Then, with a rattle and bang he kept on falling
down until he had rolled out completely on the animal's back, and thence
off to one side, into the soft grass along the road, where he lay
stunned.
He could hear, as in a dream, Adrian faintly shouting to him, and then
something seemed to flash by him. There was a confused rattle and rumble
that grew fainter and fainter, and the blackness became more intense.
As if he was falling fast asleep he heard a voice calling: "Roger!
Roger!"
Then his eyes seemed to close tightly and he knew nothing more, as he
lay in a huddled heap on the ground.