THE OLD HOME.
The town of Bloomfield was agog. Strange things were transpiring there,
and gossip was busy.
Old Jacob Worthen, the richest man in town, known to be a miserly old
curmudgeon, came knocking along the wooden sidewalk with his crooked
cane.
Several of the villagers saw him. In a body they left the steps of Lem
Briggs’ grocery store, where they had been loafing and blocked the
sidewalk.
“How de do, Mr. Worthen?” said one. “Fine day ter-day.”
“Haw!” said old Jacob. “That reminds me, Cy Jones, I’ve got a little
note of yourn that runs out next Tewsday. I s’pose ye’ll be reddy to
pay. I need the money.”
“’Cordin’ to what I hear,” said another of the group, “you can’t be
needin’ money much jest now, Mr. Worthen. They do say you’ve sold the
old Merriwell place.”
“Sold it!” snapped the richest man in Bloomfield. “I had to give it
away. Best place in this town, too; but it’s hoodooed. Been a constant
outset to me ever sence it came inter my hands. Then stories about it
bein’ ha’nted ruined its valoo. Didn’t nobody want to buy it, an’ I
couldn’t keep a tenant on it. Yes, sir, I hed to give it away.”
“Who bought it?”
“One of them smart city lawyer chaps. He bought it for another party,
too. S’pose if I’d knowed who wanted it I might ’a’ got a thousan’ or
so more fer it.”
“Well, who was it that wanted it?”
“Old Asher Merriwell’s nevvy. Mebbe some of ye remembers him? Ruther
smart-lookin’ young chap last time I saw him.”
“Why,” said Cy Jones, “I heerd he lost all his money an’ was poor.”
“Guess that was right time you heerd abaout it. His guardeen
speckerlated and lost everything. Sence then, though, the boy run
acrost his father. You’ve heerd about him—gambled a good deal. He went
out West somewhere an’ found some rich mines. Well, he died, an’ them
mines went to the boy. They do say he’s got more money’n he knows what
to do with.”
“Well, what’s he goin’ to do with the old place?”
“Fix it up fer his home, I s’pose. He’s got a crew of city workmen
tinkerin’ away there now an’ a nigger—some one old Asher hed—kinder
lookin’ after the place.”
“Well, well, well!” mumbled one of the old gossips. “Will wonders never
cease! Beats all creation how fortenit some folks be. Now looker this
boy. Lost every dollar he hed in the world, hed to leave college an’ go
ter work, an’ nobody ever s’posed we’d ever hear from him ag’in. Now
here he turns up rich as mud an’ is comin’ back here to make a spread.
I’ve spent sixty-seven years right here in Bloomfield, an’ I ain’t
never hed no chance in the world. It’s all luck—all luck.”
“Go on, Bill Kimball!” exclaimed old Jonas. “You’ve allus bin too
lazy to draw your breath. You’ve spent your life a-loafin’, an’ you
complain you ain’t never hed no chance. Now the town’s helpin’ ye, when
you might be comfertable well off an’ able ter take keer of yerself.”
“Ain’t never had no chance,” persisted Kimball doggedly. “Don’t you
talk to me, Jonas Worthen! You was born to have luck.”
“I started out in the world jest as poor as you did.”
“Well, I’m glad one of the Merriwells is comin’ back to the old place,”
said Lem Briggs, the storekeeper. “Is he merrid? I s’pose he is, or
else he wouldn’t be havin’ the place fixed up.”
Later in the day Bill Kimball was walking past a fine, old house amid
some elms, about half a mile from the village. He stopped to stare at
the house, where men were at work, when an ebony-faced young negro came
from the stable and strolled out toward the road.
“How de do?” saluted Kimball. “I kinder guess I know you. Ain’t you
Toots?”
“Dat’s my name, sar,” said the negro smilingly. “Why, bress mah soul!
I believe yo’ is Mistah Kimball. I’s po’erful glad teh see yo’, Mistah
Kimball.”
“Well, I’m glad to see you back here, Toots. What’s goin’ on? Workmen
slickin’ all up round the old place, hey?”
“Kindah makin’ it presentable, sar.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’s de ovahseer, sar,” was the proud answer. “Yo’ know Mistah Frank
has done bought de ole place, an’ he’s gwine teh make it his home.”
“When is he coming?”
“Day after to-morrow, sar. To-morrow dey’s gwine teh decorate de
church.”
“Hey?” squawked Bill Kimball. “Goin’ to what?”
“Decorate de church.”
“What for?”
“Fo’ de weddin’.”
“Weddin’? weddin’?” gasped the old man. “Is there goin’ to be a
weddin’?”
“Yes, sar; Mistah Frank is gwine teh be married.”
“Good land!” said Kimball, fanning himself with his straw hat. “That’ll
be news for the folks! Who’s he goin’ ter marry?”
“Handsomest gal in de worl’, sar—Miss Inza Burrage. Brack eyes, rosy
cheeks, an’ de sweetes’ mouth you ebber see. Ki-yi! It’ll sho’ be a
swell affaih fo’ dis town.”
“Landy massy!” spluttered Kimball. “Won’t that stir the village up! Be
they goin’ to settle down here?”
“Not now, sar.”
“They’re not?”
“No, sar. Dey’re gwine teh be married heah an’ give a pahty in de old
home to a lot ob deyer frien’s. Den dey’re gwine off ter Mexico, where
Mistah Frank has one of de berry riches’ mines in de worl’.”
“But they’re comin’ back?”
“Sho’, sar. Dis is gwine teh be deyr home. Mistah Frank alwus did mean
teh hab dis fo’ his home when he was married. He’s engaged me reg’ler
fo’ teh obersee de ole place. Next year I ’spects he’ll mak lots ob
changes an’ alterations an’ repairs. He says teh me, says he: ’Toots,
when I come back from Mexico I’s gwine teh hab some fine horses an’
keep a prime stable, mah boy. Yo’ knows mo’ about horses dan anybody
I ebber seen. I’s got teh hab yo teh look after dat stable an’ de ole
place. Name yo’ price, Toots, an’ I’ll ’gage yo’ fo’ life.’ Ki-yi!
Dat’s de sort of job teh fall into.”
“Well, well, well!” said Bill Kimball.
“Yes, sar, I’s bery well satisfied, sar. Mistah Frank is de fines’
gentleman ebber drew a bref. I knows him well, sar. He’s a prince,
sho’. Some day yo’ll see one of de fines’ estates right heah dat can be
foun’ anywhere in de country.”
“Well, I must git along back inter the village,” said old Bill. “Won’t
the folks talk when they hear all about this!”
He hobbled away as fast as his old legs could carry him.