INVENTOR'S LUCK
The thought had been impressed upon Hiram Strong's mind from the very
first that there was something altogether wrong with Yancey Battick.
His wild eyes and excited manner now convinced the visitor that this
suspicion was correct. Battick was not altogether sane. And when he
reached for that rock-salt loaded shotgun the visitor prepared to
defend himself.
The muzzle of the gun swung toward Hiram. The latter slid out of his
chair and darted sideways just as Battick rose up with the butt of
the gun at his shoulder. The muzzle seemed closely following Hiram's
movements.
Then the man's finger pressed the trigger and the gun roared. It seemed
that the wind of the charge passed over Hiram's head.
"What under the sun are you doing?" demanded the youth, leaping up and
facing the householder.
"What did you move for?" retorted Battick. "I might have got you
instead of the rat."
"The rat?" repeated Hiram in some doubt.
Battick returned the smoking shotgun to its rack and crossed the room
to the workbench. Under it, deep in the shadow of the corner, he found
his game--a fat, gray rat, still kicking.
"Great Scott!" murmured the boy from the East, "it really was a rat."
"What did you think I would be shooting in this old house?" growled
Battick. "It's rat-ridden. They give me no peace. They have cost me
more--well, no use going into that," said the man, and so concluded.
But Hiram Strong was now immensely interested in this strange
individual. His fright because of Mr. Battick's reckless use of his
shotgun was soon over. The rats about this ancient cottage certainly
were very bold. But there must be--there was--a particular reason
why the man was afraid of the rats. This fear of which Hiram had
first heard from Jason Oakley, the stationmaster, was not merely some
idiosyncrasy of Battick's.
"Have you tried poison for the vermin?" Hiram demanded.
"I've tried everything," replied the man gruffly.
"What makes them so bold?"
"The place was overrun with them when I came on it four years ago. I
can't keep anything in the barn. Why, they have eaten a good buggy
harness on me! I have to keep my harnesses in my bedroom. I've got an
alarm clock in there and it ticks so loud that it scares them off, I
guess. And, then, I snore. That must keep the creatures on the move."
Hiram did not know whether the man was all together in earnest, or not;
but he had to laugh at this last statement.
"It ain't no laughing matter," Yancey Battick said, wagging his head.
"My old horse got a nail in his hoof and I greased it well. Hanged if
the rascals didn't near eat him up in one night. If he hadn't kicked
and snorted so and woke me up, I guess they would have had the most of
him eaten before morning."
"But what brings them into the house--and so bold? You must be on the
watch for them continually."
"I am. Jase Oakley is right. I am afraid of the things. I scarcely dare
leave the house because of them--"
He halted. Hiram knew instinctively that the man thought he had said
too much. He had verged on some secret, the mystery of which the youth
had felt to be in the very air of the house since he had entered it. He
saw that Battick was eyeing him again in his suspicious, if not ugly,
way, so he hastily asked:
"Did you learn to shoot on the fly like that by shooting rats?"
"Oh, I knew how to use a gun before I came to Pringleton."
"You've got good eyesight. I did not see that rat at all."
"I saw the glint of his eyes under the bench." Battick was again
giving his attention to the preparations for supper. "I've got so I am
continually on the watch for the rascals."
And he did not dare leave the house because of them! Then, decided
Hiram Strong, there was something in the house that he feared the rats
would destroy.
Hiram looked under the odd box in the middle of the room at the little
heap of grain that lay there. Wheat! A special kind of wheat! The
seed-boxes on the bench told something. Hiram could guess more. But he
said nothing at the moment. In fact Yancey Battick was scarcely a man
to whom one would address a personal remark or ask a direct question
about himself or his affairs.
Yancey Battick brought a small stand from one corner of the room and
set it before the fire. He spread a clean, if coarse, cloth upon it,
and then the tableware, such as a camper would use. The smoking food,
together with a pot of coffee, came on the table, and Battick beckoned
Hiram to draw up his chair.
"This is mighty good of you, Mr. Battick," the visitor said,
"especially when I know you do not make a practice of harboring
wayfarers."
"I hope I shall not be sorry for having befriended you," the man said
gloomily.
"I assure you--"
"You couldn't assure me of anything," interrupted Battick. "I have had
sufficient experience to make me a thorough pessimist. You look like a
nice young fellow; but I shall not be surprised if I am, in the end,
very sorry that I took you in."
"Even to save me from the clutches of Miss Delia Pringle?" the visitor
suggested slyly.
There came a sudden twinkle into Yancey Battick's eye. Whether or not
he was a monomaniac on some subject (and Hiram Strong was tempted to
believe he was) it was evident that the man appreciated a joke. He
nodded his appreciation of Hiram's words.
"That woman is a pest!" Battick said with vigor. "But I guess she is
honest--wouldn't steal anything but an unsophisticated and helpless
man-critter, I mean."
So it was stealing that he was afraid of! Rats are great thieves. Hiram
guessed again--and believed he had hit the fundamental trouble with his
odd host. Battick had originated, or developed, a new seed-wheat. He
feared somebody would steal it from him, and the rats were doing so.
The rats were so troublesome that he had to keep the wheat in his
living room. This table-looking thing was a box full of wheat. And
because the rats were so bold he dared not leave the house. Even with
all these precautions the thieving creatures were getting some of the
wheat, as note that little pile of grain under the box on the floor.
The young fellow from Scoville was interested in more than one way.
First of all, Battick himself aroused his curiosity. But that single
kernel of wheat he had picked up interested Hiram Strong much more.
He had examined many samples of seed-wheat, but nothing that had ever
looked like this large, plump grain with the tiny crimson stripe upon
it This was indeed a distinct variety, and if its culture was possible
on all wheat lands, and it milled all right, Hiram knew the strange man
had the basis of a fortune--if he could put it over.
This section around Pringleton, as Hiram had learned from Mr. Bronson,
was not particularly a wheat-growing country. And yet every farmer of
any importance grew some wheat. If this box was full of grain the man
had about eight bushels, if Hiram was any judge of bulk and measure.
Sown carefully, this would be enough for five or six acres. Five or six
acres of wheat is a very small wheat crop, but an excellent seed crop.
If Battick really had a new and good wheat, the crop from this amount
of seed would pay him a good penny, if he could sell it to an honest
seedsman. There was thus reason why he should be so afraid of
thieves--and especially of the rats.
Under fortunate conditions, the increase of these few bushels of wheat
would yield Battick a small fortune. Perhaps the man was by no means
as crazy as he at first appeared. And it might be that he knew his
neighbors, and had reason to suspect them of desiring to rob him of the
fruits of his discovery.
The two finished supper and pushed back from the table. There was a
sink in one corner of the room, and at this Battick quickly washed the
cooking utensils and tableware, while Hiram dried them. They spoke of
inconsequential things while they did this work Then Battick said:
"I wouldn't have the heart to turn you out on a night like this, even
if it cleared off--which it isn't likely to do. I'll let you sleep in
my bed and I'll bunk down here before the fire."
"Oh, no, Mr. Battick! I could not think of taking your bed," Hiram
urged, but with a smile. "You have proved to me that you are a much
better neighbor than you were quoted at; but there is no use in
carrying the demonstration too far. I will sleep here before the fire
and be very glad of the chance."
Yancey Battick flashed him another of those hard, suspicious glances.
It was not difficult to read the man's mind now that Hiram had
discovered, as he thought, the key to the mystery. Battick was
suspicious of him yet. He said gruffly:
"If you remain here to-night, young man, you will sleep in my bed. And
see that you do sleep, too, for although I snore, I'm easily roused,
and I keep that gun right beside me."
Hiram could not help being somewhat exasperated by all this suspicion.
He was glad enough of the shelter; but he did not think he looked so
dishonest that his host had to guard himself with a shotgun.
"Look here, Mr. Battick," he said, rather tartly. "You're one of those
cows that give a good pail of milk and then step in it. You give
me supper and a bed, but distrust me. How do you know but you are
entertaining an angel unawares?" and he ended by laughing a little to
cover his vexation.
"That's all right, too," Battick replied. "I know all about those
'angels unaware.' I've had my experience with them, and I've had to
run 'em off the place with my shotgun. Besides, I don't see any wings
sprouting on you, Mr. Strong. I'll treat you just as good as you treat
me. But as I tell 'em all, when you come to my front gate, call out;
and if I don't answer, keep off."
"If you are a pessimist, Mr. Battick," Hiram said shortly, "I hope I'll
never get to be one."
Suddenly the man flashed him a more earnest glance than before. His
countenance became suffused with red.
"I hope you never will, young man," Battick said. "And never be an
inventor. Immediately a man starts out to help his fellows, everybody's
hand is turned against him. He is pariah--and likewise the prey of all
those with thieving instincts. Consider Goodyear, what he suffered; and
Elias Howe, and a horde of others.
"I came to Pringleton to escape people who wanted to rob me. Some of
them had. But it seems people are the same in all localities. I have to
watch, and threaten, and live like an outlaw to keep what is my own,
Mr. Strong. You are young and have faith. Keep that faith in people
if you can. But never be an inventor; for that is a crime that should
be punished by being boiled in oil, or sawn asunder, or drawn and
quartered, or some other middle-age device for making capital criminals
suffer."
"That is dreadful!" exclaimed Hiram.
"Sounds pretty rough, I admit," Battick said, in his usual tone. "But
believe me, I know whereof I speak. Now, come this way, Mr. Strong. I
think you will be comfortable."
He lit a candle at the blaze on the hearth and led the way into his
bedroom. It was a comfortable room, and Battick insisted upon putting
clean sheets on the bed, which he aired before the fire, and left his
guest finally with the word:
"Don't be frightened if you hear the gun in the night, Strong. I shall
probably be only shooting at a rat."
Hiram had never been entertained in just this way before. He peered
through the crack of the door and saw Yancey Battick loading the barrel
of the shotgun that had previously been emptied. The young fellow went
to bed finally feeling that he was in the midst of alarms.