Jimmy Fallows, being the boastful possessor of the fleetest horse in
town, was the first to return from the funeral. Extricating himself with
some difficulty from the narrow-seated buggy, he held out his hand to
Mrs. Fallows. But that imposing lady, evidently offended with her jovial
lord, refused his proffered aid, and clambered out over the wheel on the
other side.
Mrs. Fallows, whose architectural effects were strictly perpendicular,
cast a perpetual shadow of disapproval over the life partner whom it had
pleased Providence to bestow upon her. Jimmy was a born satirist; he
knew things are not what they seem, and he wickedly rejoiced thereat. To
his literal, pious-minded wife he at times seemed the incarnation of
wickedness.
Sweeping with dignity beneath the arching sign of Your Hotel, she took
her seat upon the porch, and, disposing her sable robes about her,
folded her mitted hands, and waited to see the people return from the
funeral.
Jimmy, with the uncertain expression of one who is ready to apologize,
but cannot remember the offense, hovered about uneasily, casting
tempting bits of conversational bait into the silence, but failing to
attract so much as a nibble of attention.
"Miss Jemima Fenny was over to the funeral from Birdtown. Miss Jim is
one of 'em, ain't she?"
There was no response.
"Had her brother Nick with her. He's just gettin' over typhoid fever;
looks about the size and color of a slate pencil. I bet, in spite of
Miss Jim's fine clothes, they ain't had a square meal for a month.
That's because she kept him at school so long when he orter been at
work. He did git a job in a newspaper office over at Coreyville not
long 'fore he was took sick. They tell me he's as slick as a onion about
newspaper work."
Continued silence; but Jimmy boldly cast another fly:
"Last funeral we had was Mrs. Tucker's, wasn't it? Old man Tucker was
there to-day. Crape band on his hat is climbin' up; it'll be at high
mast ag'in soon."
Dense, nerve-racking silence; but Jimmy made one more effort:
"The Opps are coming back here to-night to talk things over before Ben
goes on to Missouri. He counts on ketchin' the night boat. It won't give
him much time, will it?"
But Mrs. Fallows, unrelaxed, stared fixedly before her; she had taken
refuge in that most trying of all rejoinders, silence, and the fallible
Jimmy, who waxed strong and prospered upon abuse, drooped and languished
under this new and cruel form of punishment.
It was not until a buggy stopped at the door, and the Opp brothers
descended, that the tension was in any way relieved.
Jimmy greeted them with the joy of an Arctic explorer welcoming a relief
party.
"Come right on in here, in the office," he cried hospitably; "your
talkin' won't bother me a speck."
But Ben abruptly expressed his desire for more private quarters, and led
the way up-stairs.
The low-ceiled room into which he ushered D. Webster was of such a
depressing drab that even the green and red bed-quilt failed to disperse
the gloom. The sole decoration, classic in its severity, was a large
advertisement for a business college, whereon an elk's head grew out of
a bow of ribbon, the horns branching and rebranching into a forest of
curves and flourishes.
The elder Opp took his seat by the window, and drummed with impatient
fingers on the sill. He was small, like his brother, but of a compact,
sturdy build. His chin, instead of dwindling to a point, was square and
stubborn, and his eyes looked straight ahead at the thing he wanted,
and neither saw nor cared for what lay outside. He had been trying ever
since leaving the cemetery to bring the conversation down to practical
matters, but D. Webster, seizing the first opportunity of impressing
himself upon his next of kin, had persisted in indulging in airy and
time-destroying flights of fancy.
The truth is that our Mr. Opp was not happy. In his secret heart he felt
a bit apologetic before the material success of his elder brother. Hence
it was necessary to talk a great deal and to set forth in detail the
very important business enterprises upon which he was about to embark.
Presently Ben Opp looked at his watch.
"See here," he interrupted, "that boat may be along at any time. We'd
better come to some decision about the estate."
D. Webster ran his fingers through his hair, which stood in valiant
defense of the small bald spot behind it.
"Yes, yes," he said; "business is business. I'll have to be off myself
the very first thing in the morning. This funeral couldn't have come at
a more unfortunate time for me. You see, my special territory--"
But Ben saw the danger of another bolt, and checked him:
"How much do you think the old house is worth?"
D. Webster drew forth his shiny note-book and pencil and made elaborate
calculations.
"I should say," he said, as one financier to another, "that including of
the house and land and contents of same, it would amount to the whole
sum total of about two thousand dollars."
"That is about what I figured," said Ben; "now, how much money is in the
bank?"
D. Webster produced a formidable packet of letters and papers from his
inside pocket and, after some searching, succeeded in finding a
statement, which set forth the fact that the Ripper County Bank held in
trust one thousand dollars, to be divided between the children of Mary
Opp Moore at the death of her husband, Curtis V. Moore.
"One thousand dollars!" said Ben, looking blankly at his brother, "Why,
for heaven's sake, what have Mr. Moore and Kippy been living on all
these years?"
D. Webster moved uneasily in his chair. "Oh, they've managed to get
along first rate," he said evasively.
His brother looked at him narrowly. "On the interest of a thousand
dollars?" He leaned forward, and his face hardened: "See here, have you
been putting up cash all this time for that old codger to loaf on? Is
that why you have never gotten ahead?"
D. Webster, with hands in his pockets and his feet stretched in front of
him, was blinking in furious embarrassment at the large-eyed elk
overhead.
"To think," went on Ben, his slow wrath rising, "of your staying here in
Kentucky all these years and handing out what you made to that old
sponger. I cut loose and made a neat little sum, married, and settled
down. And what have you done? Where have you gotten? Anybody that would
let himself be imposed upon like that deserves to fail. Now what do you
propose to do about this money?"
Mr. Opp did not propose to do anything. The affront offered his business
sagacity was of such a nature that it demanded all his attention. He
composed various denunciatory answers with which to annihilate his
brother. He hesitated between two courses, whether he should hurl
himself upon him in righteous indignation and demand physical
satisfaction, or whether he should rise in a calm and manly attitude and
wither him with blighting sarcasm. And while the decision was pending,
he still sat with his hands in his pockets, and his feet stretched
forth, and blinked indignantly at the ornate elk.
"The estate," continued Ben, contempt still in his face, "amounts at
most to three thousand dollars, after the house is sold. Part of this,
of course, will go to the maintenance of Kippy."
At mention of her name, Mr. Opp's gaze dropped abruptly to his brother's
face.
"What about Kippy? She's going to live with you, ain't she?" he asked
anxiously.
Ben Opp shook his head emphatically. "She certainly is not. I haven't
the slightest idea of burdening myself and family with that
feeble-minded girl."
"But see here," said Mr. Opp, his anger vanishing in the face of this
new complication, "you don't know Kippy; she's just similar to a little
child, quiet and gentle-like. Never give anybody any trouble in her
life. Just plays with her dolls and sings to herself all day."
"Exactly," said Ben; "twenty-five years old and still playing with
dolls. I saw her yesterday, dressed up in all sorts of foolish toggery,
talking to her hands, and laughing. Aunt Tish humors her, and her father
humored her, but I'm not going to. I feel sorry for her all right, but
I am not going to take her home with me."
D. Webster nervously twisted the large seal ring which he wore on his
forefinger. "Then what do you mean," he said hesitatingly--"what do you
want to do about it?"
"Why, send her to an asylum, of course. That's where she ought to have
been all these years."
Mr. Opp, sitting upon the small of his back, with one leg wrapped
casually about the leg of the chair, stared at him for a moment in
consternation, then, gathering himself together, rose and for the first
time since we have met him seemed completely to fill his checked
ready-made suit.
"Send Kippy to a lunatic asylum!" he said in tones so indignant that
they made his chin tremble. "You will do nothing whatever of the kind!
Why, all she's ever had in the world was her pa and Aunt Tish and her
home; now he's gone, you ain't wanting to take the others away from her
too, are you?"
"Well, who is going to take care of her?" demanded Ben angrily.
"I am," announced D. Webster, striking as fine an attitude as ever his
illustrious predecessor struck; "you take the money that's in the bank,
and leave me the house and Kippy. That'll be her share and mine. I can
take care of her; I don't ask favors of nobody. Suppose I do lose my
job; I'll get me another. There's a dozen ways I can make a living.
There ain't a man in the State that's got more resources than me. I got
plans laid now that'll revolutionize--"
"Yes," said Ben, quietly, "you always could do great things."
D. Webster's egotism, inflated to the utmost, burst at this prick, and
he suddenly collapsed. Dropping limply into the chair by the table, he
held his hand over his mouth to hide his agitation.
"There's--there's one thing," he began, swallowing violently, and
winking after each word, "that I--I can't do--and that's to leave
a--sister--to die--among strangers."
And then, to his mortification, his head went unexpectedly down upon his
arms, and a flood of tears bedimmed the radiance of his twenty-five-cent
four-in-hand.
From far down the river came the whistle of the boat, and, in the room
below, Jimmy Fallows removed a reluctant ear from the stove-pipe hole.
"Melindy," he said confidentially, entirely forgetting the late frost,
"I never see anybody in the world that stood as good a show of gittin'
the fool prize as that there D. Opp."