I
In the clear glow of a lengthening twilight of spring Gordon Makimmon
sauntered into Simmons' store. The high, dusty windows facing the
Courthouse were raised, and a warm air drifted in, faint eddies of the
fragrance of flowering bushes, languorous draughts of a countryside newly
green.
A number of men idling over a counter greeted him with a familiar and
instantly alert curiosity. The clerk behind the counter bent forward with
the brisk assumption of a business-like air. "Certainly," Gordon replied
to his query, pausing to allow his purpose to gain its full effect; "I
want to order a suit of clothes."
"Why, damn it t'ell, Gord!" exclaimed an individual, with a long, drooping
nose, a jaw which hung loosely on a corded, bare throat; "it ain't three
weeks ago but you got a suit, and it ain't the one you have on now,
neither."
"Shut up, Tol'able," Buckley Simmons interposed, "you'll hurt trade.
Gordon's the Dandy Dick of Greenstream."
"Haven't I a right to as many suits of clothes as I've a mind to?" Gordon
demanded belligerently.
"Sure you have, Gord. You certainly have," a pacific chorus replied.
"I want one like the last drummer wore through here," he continued; "a
check suit with braid on all the edges."
The clerk dropped a bulky volume heavily on the counter. "The Chicago
Sartorial Company," he asserted, "have got some swell checks." He ran
hastily over the pages, each with a sample rectangle of cloth pasted
within a printed gold border, and a cabalistic sign beneath. Finally,
"How's that?" he demanded, indicating a bold, mathematical design in pale
orange, blue and grey.
A combined whistle rose from the onlookers; comments of mock amazement
crowded one upon another. "Jin ... go! He's got the wrong book--that's rag
carpet. Don't look at it too long, Gord, it'll cross your eyes. That ain't
a suit, it's a game." A gaunt hand solemnly shook out imaginary dice upon
the counter, "It's my move and I can jump you."
"Gentlemen! gentlemen!" the clerk protested; "this is the finest article
woven, the very toniest."
Gordon dismissed the sample with a gesture. "I'm a man," he pronounced,
"not a minstrel." His attention was held by a smaller pattern, in black
and white, with an occasional red thread drawn through. "That's it," he
decided; "that's it, with braid. What will that damage me?"
The clerk consulted the sign appended to the sample, then raced through a
smaller, supplementary volume, where he located the item in question.
"That cloth you picked out," he announced importantly, "is one of the best
the Chicago Sartorial Company put out. Cut ample, with sleeves lined in
silkaleen and back in A1 mohair, it'll stand you thirty-eight dollars.
Genuine Eytalian thread silk lining will come at four and a half more."
"She'll do," Gordon told him, "with the silk and the braid edge."
The clerk noted the order; then with a tape measure affixed to a slim,
wooden angle, came from behind the counter. "Remove the coat, please."
Gordon, with a patent self-consciousness, took off his coat, revealing a
flimsy white silk shirt striped like a child's stick of candy in vivid
green.
The whistle arose with renewed force; gnarled and blackened fingers
gingerly felt the shirt's texture. "Man dear! The lily of Lebanon. Arrayed
like a regular prostitute ... silk shirt tails."
The clerk skilfully conducted a series of measurements, noting results on
a printed form; outer and inner seams were tallied, chest and thigh and
knee recorded, the elbow crooked. "Don't forget his teeth," the clerk was
admonished; "remember the braid on the pants."
Gordon resumed his coat, the clerk returned the books to their shelf, and
the factitious excitement subsided. The light faded, the depths of the
store swam in blue obscurity, but the fragrance of the spring dusk had
deepened.
"When are you going to get the dog, Gord?" Tol'able asked.
"What dog?" another interposed curiously.
"Why, ain't you heard about Gord's dog," the chorus demanded. "Where have
you been--up with the Dutch on the South Fork? Gord's got a dog coming he
give two hundred dollars for. Yes, sir, he paid for a dog, he give real
money for a four-legged, yelping wire-hound. It ain't a rabbit dog, nor a
sheep dog, nor even a bull-dog; but just plain, stinking dog."
"Ah, he did like hell, give two hundred for a dog!"
"Yes, he did. That's right, didn't you, Gord? Two hundred! I saw the
cheque. God dam' if he didn't!"
Gordon admitted the facts as far as they had been stated. "But this dog,"
he explained, "is different from the just happen so hounds around here.
This dog has got a pedigree, his parents were united by the church all
regular and highly fashionable. He ain't expected to run rabbits nor mangy
sheep; he just sits on the stoop eating sausages and syrup, and takes a
leg off any low down parties that visit with him without a collar on.
He'll be on the Stenton stage this evening," he added. "I got word last
night he was coming."
They lounged to the entrance of the store, gazing over the still road, in
the direction from which the stage would arrive. Valentine Simmons was in
his office; and, as Gordon passed, he knocked on the glass of the
enclosure, and beckoned the other to enter.
He greeted Gordon Makimmon cordially, waving him to a seat. Valentine
Simmons never, apparently, changed; his countenance was always freshly
pink, the tufts of hair above his ears like combed lamb's wool; his shirt
with its single, visible blue button never lacked its immaculate gloss.
"You're looking as jaunty as a man should with the choice of the land
before him. Lucky! lucky! charming little wife, large fortune at your
disposal.... Pompey left one of the solidest estates in this section.
Opportune for you, very ... miraculous, if I may say so. But there, you
ornament the money as well as any other. You are right too--a free hand;
yours is the time for liberality, no cares--they come later. Ah, Gordon,
have you examined the details of your late father-in-law's property? Have
you searched through all the items, made yourself familiar with all
the--er, petty and laborious details?"
"No, not just yet, I have been intending--"
Simmons stopped him with an upraised palm. "No more, I understand your
thought exactly. It's a tiresome business. Yours is the time for
liberality, no cares. However, I had a slight knowledge of Pompey
Hollidew's arrangements. He was accustomed to discussing them with me. He
liked my judgment in certain little matters; and, in that way, I got a
general idea of his enterprises. He was a great hand for timber, your
father-in-law; against weighty advice at the time of his death he was
buying timber options here and there in the valley. Though what he wanted
with them ... beyond ordinary foresight.--No transportation, you see; no
railroad nor way of getting lumber out. But then, he had some visionary
scheme or other. He held some thousand acres, most of it bought at a
nominal figure. No good to anybody now; but I have got the timber fever
myself--something may turn up in the far future, perhaps in another
generation.... What would you say to a flat eight dollars an acre for the
options, the money banked right to your credit? A neat little sum for
current pleasures. Ah--" in spite of himself, Valentine Simmons became
grave at the contemplation of the amount involved. "I don't say I would
take all, but the best, certainly the greater part."
"Why, I don't know," Gordon spoke slowly from an old-time suspicion of the
other. "It's my wife's property."
"But such a dutiful little wife--the husband's word. Remember, the money
in your hand."
"It certainly sounds all right. Lettice would have the cash to show. I'll
speak to her."
"Better not delay. There are other options; owners are glad to sell. I
have given you the privilege first--old friend, old Presbyterian friend.
The time is necessarily limited."
As he mentally revolved the proposal Gordon could find no palpable
objection: the options, the timber, was obviously standing fallow, with no
means of transportation to a market, in exchange for ready money. Lettice
would easily see the sense in the deal; besides, he had brought in her
name only for form's sake--he, Gordon Makimmon, held the deciding vote in
the affairs of his home.
"I don't rightly see anything against it," he admitted finally.
"Good!" Simmons declared with satisfaction; "an able man, you can see as
far as the next through a transaction. I'll have the county clerk go over
the options, bring you the result in a couple of weeks. Don't disturb
yourself; yours is the time for pleasures, not papers."
"Hey, Gord!" a voice called thinly from without; "here's your dog."
Gordon rose and made his way to the platform before the store, where the
Stenton stage had stopped. A seat had been removed from the surrey, its
place taken by a large box with a square opening, covered with heavy wire
net at one end, and a board fitted movably in grooves at the other. There
were mutters incredulous, ironic, from the awaiting group of men; envy was
perceptible, bitterness "... for a dog. Two hundred! Old Pompey hollered
out of the dirt."
"There he is, Gord," the driver proclaimed; "and fetching that dog
palace'll cost you seventy-five cents." The box was shifted to the
platform; and, while Gordon unfastened the slide, the men gathered in a
curious, mocking circle.
The slide was raised, the box sharply tilted, and a grotesquely clumsy and
grave young dog slid out. There was a hoarse uproar of gibing laughter,
backs and knees were slapped, heavy feet stamped. The dog stood puzzled by
the tumult: he had a long, square, shaggy head, the color of ripe wheat;
clear, dark eyes and powerful jaw; his body was narrow, covered with
straight, wiry black hair; a short tail was half raised, tentative; and
his wheat colored legs were ludicrously, inappropriately, long and
heavy.
He stood patiently awaiting, evidently, some familiar note, some
reassuring command, in that unintelligible human clamor. Gordon regarded
him through half-closed, indifferent eyes. "Here, doggy," a hoarse,
persuasive voice called; a hand was stretched out to him. But, as he
reached it, "Two hundred dollars!" the voice exclaimed, and the hand gave
the animal a quick, unexpected thrust. The dog sprawled back, and fell on
the point of his shoulder. He rose swiftly to his feet without a whimper,
standing once more at a loss in the midst of the inexplicable animosity.
He watched them all intently, with wrinkles in his serious young brow.
When, from behind, another hand thrust him sharply upon his jaw, he rose
as quickly as possible, swaying a little upon the inappropriate legs.
Another suddenly knocked his hind legs from under him, and he sat heavily
upon his haunches. The laughter ran renewed about the circle.
The sum of money that had been expended upon that single dog--a dog even
that could neither hunt rabbits nor herd sheep--had, it appeared,
engendered a bitter animosity, a personal spite, in the hearts of the men
on the store platform. They were men to whom two hundred dollars was the
symbol of arduous months of toil, endless days of precariously rewarded
labor with the stubborn, inimical forces of nature, with swamp and rock
and thicket. Two hundred dollars! It was the price of a roof, of health,
of life itself.
A hard palm swung upon the dog's ribs, and, in instant response, he fell
upon his side. He rose more slowly; stood isolated, obviously troubled. He
drew back stumbling from a menacing gesture; but there was no cringing
visible in his immature, ill-proportioned body; his tail drooped, but from
weariness, discouragement; his head was level; his eyes met the circle of
eyes about him.
Gordon took no part in the baiting; he lit a cigar, snapped the match over
his shoulder, carelessly watched his newest acquisition. A heavy,
wooden-soled shoe shoved the dog forward. And Buckley Simmons, in an
obvious improvement upon that manoeuver, kicked the animal behind the ear.
The forelegs rose with the impact of the blow, and the body struck full
length upon the platform, where it lay dazed. But, finally, the dog got up
insecurely, wabbling; a dark blot spread slowly across the straw-colored
head.
No one, it was evident, was prepared for the sudden knifelike menace of
Gordon Makimmon's voice as he bent over the dog and wiped the blood upon
his sleeve.
"Kick him again, Buck," he said; "kick him again and see how funny it'll
be."
"Why, Gordon," Buckley Simmons protested, "we were all stirring him up a
little; you didn't say anything--"
Makimmon picked the dog up, holding him against his side, the awkward legs
streaming down in an uncomfortable confusion of joints and paws. "I paid
two hundred dollars for this dog," he pronounced, "as a piece of dam'
foolishness, a sort of drunken joke on Greenstream. But it's no joke; the
two hundred was cheap. I've seen a lot of good men--I'm not exactly a
peafowl myself--but this young dog's better'n any man I ever stood up to;
he's got more guts."
He abruptly turned his back upon the gathering, and descended to the road,
carrying the limp, warm body all the way home.