Gordon had intended to avoid the vicinity of the Courthouse on the day of
the sale of his home, but an intangible attraction held him in its
neighborhood. He sat by the door to the office of the _Greenstream Bugle_,
diagonally across the street. Within, the week's edition was going to
press; a burly young individual was turning the cylinders by hand, while
the editor and owner dexterously removed the printed sheets from the
press. The office was indescribably grimy, the rude ceiling was hung with
dusty cobwebs, the windows obscured by a grey film. A small footpress
stood to the left of the entrance, on the right were ranged typesetter's
cases with high, precarious stools, a handpress for proof and a table to
hold the leaded forms. These, with the larger press, an air-tight sheet
iron stove and some nondescript chairs, completed the office furnishings.
Over all hung the smell of mingled grease, ink, and damp paper, flat and
penetrating.
Without, the sun shone ardently; it cast a rich pattern of light and shade
on the Courthouse lawn and the small assemblage of merely idle or
interested persons gathered for the sale. The sheriff stood facing them
under the towering pillars of the portico; his voice rang clearly through
the air. To Gordon the occasion, the loud sing-song of the sheriff,
appeared unreal, dreamlike; he listened incredulously to the meager
cataloguing of his dwelling, the scant acreage, with an innate sense of
outrage, of a shameful violation of his privacy. He was still unable to
realize that his home and his father's, the clearing that his grandfather
had cut from the wild, was actually passing from his possession. He
summoned in vain the emotions which, he told himself, were appropriate.
The profound discouragement within him would not be lifted to emotional
heights: lassitude settled over him like a fog.
The bidding began in scattered, desultory fashion, mounting slowly by
hundreds. Eighteen hundred dollars was offered, and there the price
obstinately hung.
The owner of the _Bugle_ appeared at his door, and nodded mysteriously to
Gordon, who rose and listlessly obeyed the summons. The former closed the
door with great care, and lowered a faded and torn shade over the front
window. Then he retired to a small space divided from the body of the
office by a curtain suspended from a sagging wire. He brought his face
close to Gordon's ear. "Have a nip?" he asked, in a solemn, guarded
fashion. Gordon assented.
A bottle was produced from a cupboard, and, together with a tin cup,
handed to him.
"Luck," he pronounced half-heartedly, raising the cup to his lips. When
the other had gone through a similar proceeding the process was carefully
reversed--the bottle was returned to the cupboard, the tin cup suspended
upon its hook, the steps retraced and the curtain once more coaxed up, the
door thrown open.
The group on the Courthouse lawn were stringing away; on the steps the
sheriff was conversing with Valentine Simmons' brother, a drab individual
who performed the storekeeper's public services and errands. The sale had
been consummated. The long, loose-jointed dwelling accumulated by
successive generations of Makimmons had passed out of their possession.
A poignant feeling of loss flashed through Gordon's apathy; suddenly his
eyes burned, and an involuntary sharp inspiration resembled a gasp, a sob.
A shadow ran over the earth. The owner of the _Bugle_ stepped out and
gazed upward. At the sight of the soft, grey clouds assembling above an
expression of determined purpose settled upon his dark countenance. He
hurried into the office, and reappeared a few minutes later, a peaked
corduroy hat drawn over his eyes, a piece of pasteboard in one hand, and,
under his arm, a long, slender bundle folded in black muslin. The
pasteboard he affixed to the door; it said, "Gone fishing. Back
to-morrow."