SUPPLY AND DEMAND
And now life in East Harniss became temporarily fevered. Issy McKay
dashed out of the station and rushed importantly up and down the
platform. Ed Crocker and Cornelius Rowe emerged and draped themselves
in statuesque attitudes against the side of the building. Obed Gott came
hurrying from his paint and oil shop, which was next to the “general
store.” Mr. Higgins, proprietor of the latter, sauntered easily across
to receive, in his official capacity as postmaster, the mail bag. Ten or
more citizens, of both sexes, and of various ages, gathered in groups to
inspect and supervise.
The locomotive pulled its string of cars, a “baggage,” a “smoker,”
and two “passengers,” alongside the platform. The sliding door of the
baggage car was pushed back and the baggage master appeared in the
opening. “Hi! Cap'n!” he shouted. “Hi, Cap'n Sol! Here's some express
for you.”
But unfortunately the Captain was in conversation with the conductor at
the other end of the train. Issy, willing and officious, sprang forward.
“I'll take it, Bill,” he volunteered. “Here, give it to me.”
The baggage master handed down the package, a good sized one marked
“Glass. With Care.” Issy received it, clutched it to his bosom, turned
and saw Gertie Higgins, pretty daughter of Beriah Higgins, stepping from
the first car to the platform. Gertie had been staying with an aunt in
Trumet and was now returning home for a day or two.
Issy stopped short and gazed at her. He saw her meet and kiss her
father, and the sight roused turbulent emotions in his bosom. He saw her
nod and smile at acquaintances whom she passed. She approached, noticed
him, and--oh, rapture!--said laughingly, “Hello, Is.” Before he could
recover his senses and remember to do more than grin she had disappeared
around the corner of the station. Therefore he did not see the young man
who stepped forward to shake her hand and whisper in her ear. This young
man was Sam Bartlett, and, as a “city dude,” Issy loathed and hated him.
No, Issy did not see the hurried and brief meeting between Bartlett and
Gertie Higgins, but he had seen enough to cause forgetfulness of mundane
things. For an instant he stared after the vanished vision. Then he
stepped blindly forward, tripped over something--“his off hind leg,” so
Captain Sol afterwards vowed--and fell sprawling, the express package
beneath him.
The crash of glass reached the ears of the depot master. He broke away
from the conductor and ran toward his prostrate “assistant.” Pushing
aside the delighted and uproarious bystanders, he forcibly helped the
young man to rise.
“What in time?” he demanded.
Issy agonizingly held the package to his ear and shook it.
“I--I'm afraid somethin's cracked,” he faltered.
The crowd set up a whoop. Ed Crocker appeared to be in danger of
strangling.
“Cracked!” repeated Captain Sol. “Cracked!” he smiled, in spite of
himself. “Yes, somethin's cracked. It's that head of yours, Issy. Here,
let's see!”
He snatched the package from the McKay hands and inspected it.
“Smashed to thunder!” he declared. “Who's the lucky one it belongs to?
Humph!” He read the inscription aloud, “Major Cuthbertson S. Hardee. The
Major, hey! . . . Well, Is, you take the remains inside and you and I'll
hold services over it later.”
“I--I didn't go to do it,” protested the frightened Issy.
“Course you didn't. If you had you wouldn't. You're like the feller
in Scriptur', you leave undone the things you ought to do and do them
that--All right, Jim! Let her go! Cast off!”
The conductor waved his hand, the engine puffed, the bell rang, and
the train moved onward. For another twelve hours East Harniss was left
marooned by the outside world.
Beriah Higgins and the mail bag were already in the post office. Thither
went the crowd to await the sorting and ultimate distribution. A short,
fat little man lingered and, walking up to the depot master, extended
his hand.
“Hello, Sol!” he said, smiling. “Thought I'd stop long enough to say
'Howdy,' anyhow.”
“Why, Bailey Stitt!” cried the Captain. “How are you? Glad to see you.
Thought you was down to South Orham, takin' out seasick parties for the
Ocean House, same kind of a job I used to have in Wellmouth.”
“I am,” replied Captain Stitt. “That is, I was. Just now I've run over
here to see about contractin' for a supply of clams and quahaugs for our
boarders. You never see such a gang to eat as them summer folks, in your
life. Barzilla Wingate, he says the same about his crowd. He's comin' on
the mornin' train from Wellmouth.”
“You don't tell me. I ain't seen Barzilla for a long spell. Where you
stoppin'? Come up to the house, won't you?”
“Can't. I'm goin' to put up over to Obed Gott's. His sister, Polena
Ginn, is a relation of mine by marriage. So long! Obed's gone on ahead
to tell Polena to put the kettle on. Maybe Obed and I'll be back again
after I've had supper.”
“Do. I'll be round here for two or three hours yet.”
He entered the depot. Except the forlorn Issy, who sat in a corner,
holding the express package in his lap, Simeon Phinney was the only
person in the waiting room.
“Come on now, Sol!” pleaded Sim. “I want to hear the rest of that about
you and Williams. You left off in the most ticklish place possible,
out of spite, I do believe. I'm hangin' on to that boat in the breakers
until I declare I believe I'm catchin' cold just from imagination.”
“Wait a minute, Sim,” said the depot master. Then he turned to his
assistant.
“Issy,” he said, “this is about the nineteenth time you've done just
this sort of thing. You're no earthly use and I ought to give you your
clearance papers. But I can't, you're too--well--ornamental. You've
got to be punished somehow and I guess the best way will be to send you
right up to Major Hardee's and let you give him the remnants. He'll
want to know how it happened, and you tell him the truth. The TRUTH,
understand? If you invent any fairy tales out of those novels of yours
I'll know it by and by and--well, YOU'LL know I know. No remarks,
please. Git!”
Issy hesitated, seemed about to speak, thought better of it, took up
package and cap, and “got.”
“Let's see,” said the Captain, sitting down in one of the station chairs
and lighting a fresh cigar; “where was Williams and I in that yarn of
mine? Oh, yes, I could see land and cal'lated we was goin' to bump.
Well, we did. Steerin' anyways but dead ahead was out of the question,
and all I could do was set my teeth and trust in my bein' a member
of the church. The Shootin' Star hit that beach like she was the real
article. Overboard went oar and canvas and grub pails, and everything
else that wa'n't nailed down, includin' Fatty and me. I grabbed him by
the collar and wallowed ashore.
“'Awk! hawk!' he gasps, chokin', 'I'm drownded.'
“I let him BE drownded, for the minute. I had the launch to think of,
and somehow or 'nother I got hold of her rodin' and hauled the anchor up
above tide mark. Then I attended to my passenger.
“'Where are we?' he asks.
“I looked around. Close by was nothin' but beach-grass and seaweed and
sand. A little ways off was a clump of scrub pines and bayberry bushes
that looked sort of familiar. And back of them was a little board shanty
that looked more familiar still. I rubbed the salt out of my eyes.
“'WELL!' says I. 'I swan to man!'
“'What is it?' he says. 'Do you know where we are? Whose house is that?'
“I looked hard at the shanty.
“'Humph!' I grunted. 'I do declare! Talk about a feller's comin' back to
his own. Whose shanty is that? Well, it's mine, if you want to know.
The power that looks out for the lame and the lazy has hove us ashore on
Woodchuck Island, and that's a piece of real estate I own.'
“It sounds crazy enough, that's a fact; but it was true. Woodchuck
Island is a little mite of a sand heap off in the bay, two mile from
shore and ten from the nighest town. I'd bought it and put up a shanty
for a gunnin' shack; took city gunners down there, once in a while,
the fall before. That summer I'd leased it to a friend of mine, name of
Darius Baker, who used it while he was lobsterin'. The gale had driven
us straight in from sea, 'way past Sandy P'int and on to the island.
'Twas like hittin' a nail head in a board fence, but we'd done it. Shows
what Providence can do when it sets out.
“I explained some of this to Williams as we waded through the sand to
the shanty.
“'But is this Baker chap here now?' he asks.
“'I'm afraid not,' says I. 'The lobster season's about over, and he was
goin' South on a yacht this week. Still, he wa'n't to go till Saturday
and perhaps--'
“But the shanty was empty when we got there. I fumbled around in the tin
matchbox and lit the kerosene lamp in the bracket on the wall. Then I
turned to Williams.
“'Well,' says I, 'we're lucky for once in--'
“Then I stopped. When he went overboard the water had washed off
his hat. Likewise it had washed off his long black hair--which was a
wig--and his head was all round and shiny and bald, like a gull's egg
out in a rain storm.”
“I knew he wore a wig,” interrupted Phinney.
“Of course you do. Everybody does now. But he wa'n't such a prophet in
Israel then as he's come to be since, and folks wa'n't acquainted with
his personal beauties.
“'What are you starin' at?' he asks.
“I fetched a long breath. 'Nothin',' says I. 'Nothin'.'
“But for the rest of that next ha'f hour I went around in a kind of
daze, as if MY wig had gone and part of my head with it. When a feller
has been doin' a puzzle it kind of satisfies him to find out the answer.
And I'd done my puzzle.
“I knew where I'd met Mr. Williams afore.”
“You did?” cried Simeon.
“Um-hm. Wait a while. Well, Fatty went to bed, in one of the hay bunks,
pretty soon after that. He stripped to his underclothes and turned in
under the patchwork comforters. He was too beat out to want any supper,
even if there'd been any in sight. I built a fire in the rusty cook
stove and dried his duds and mine. Then I set down in the busted chair
and begun to think. After a spell I got up and took account of stock, as
you might say, of the eatables in the shanty. Darius had carted off his
own grub and what there was on hand was mine, left over from the gunnin'
season--a hunk of salt pork in the pickle tub, some corn meal in a tin
pail, some musty white flour in another pail, a little coffee, a little
sugar and salt, and a can of condensed milk. I took these things out of
the locker they was in, looked 'em over, put 'em back again and sprung
the padlock. Then I put the key into my pocket and went back to my chair
to do some more thinkin'.
“Next mornin' I was up early and when the banker turned out I was fryin'
a couple of slices of the pork and had some coffee b'ilin'. Likewise
there was a pan of johnnycake in the oven. The wind had gone down
consider'ble, but 'twas foggy and thick again, which was a pleasin'
state of things for yours truly.
“Williams smelt the cookin' almost afore he got his eyes open.
“'Hurry up with that breakfast,' he says to me. 'I'm hungry as a wolf.'
“I didn't say nothin' then; just went ahead with my cookin'. He got into
his clothes and went outdoor. Pretty soon he comes back, cussin' the
weather.
“'See here, Mr. Williams,' says I, 'how about them orders to your
housekeeper? Are they straight? Won't she have you hunted up for a
week?'
“He colored pretty red, but from what he said I made out that she
wouldn't. I gathered that him and the old lady wa'n't real chummy. She
give him his grub and her services, and he give her the Old Harry and
her wages. She wouldn't hunt for him, not until she was ordered to.
She'd be only too glad to have him out of the way.
“'Humph!' says I. 'Then I cal'late we'll enjoy the scenery on this
garden spot of creation until the week's up.'
“'What do you mean?' says he.
“'Well,' I says, 'the launch is out of commission, unless it should
rain gasoline, and at this time of year there ain't likely to be a boat
within hailin' distance of this island; 'specially if the weather holds
bad.'
“He swore a blue streak, payin' partic'lar attention to the housekeeper
for her general stupidness and to me because I'd got him, so he said,
into this scrape. I didn't say nothin'; set the table, with one plate
and one cup and sasser and knife and fork, hauled up a chair and set
down to my breakfast. He hauled up a box and set down, too.
“'Pass me that corn bread,' says he. 'And why didn't you fry more pork?'
“He was reachin' out for the johnnycake, but I pulled it out of his way.
“'Wait a minute, Mr. Williams,' says I. 'While you was snoozin' last
night I made out a kind of manifest of the vittles aboard this shanty.
'Cordin' to my figgerin' here's scursely enough to last one husky man
a week, let along two husky ones. I paid consider'ble attention to your
preachin' yesterday and the text seemed to be to look out for number
one. Now in this case I'm the one and I've got to look out for myself.
This is my shanty, my island, and my grub. So please keep your hands off
that johnnycake.'
“For a minute or so he set still and stared at me. Didn't seem to sense
the situation, as you might say. Then the red biled up in his face and
over his bald head like a Fundy tide.
“'Why, you dummed villain!' he shouts. 'Do you mean to starve me?'
“'You won't starve in a week,' says I, helpin' myself to pork. 'A feller
named Tanner, that I read about years ago, lived for forty days on cold
water and nothin' else. There's the pump right over in the corner. It's
my pump, but I'll stretch a p'int and not charge for it this time.'
“'You--you--' he stammers, shakin' all over, he was so mad. 'Didn't I
hire you--'
“'You hired me to take you out to the fishin' grounds and back, provided
the launch was made ready by YOU. It wa'n't ready, so THAT contract's
busted. And you was to furnish your extrys and I was to furnish mine.
Here they be and I need 'em. It's as legitimate a deal as ever I see;
perfect case of supply and demand--supply for one and demand for two. As
I said afore, I'm the one.'
“'By thunder!' he growls, standin' up, 'I'll show you--'
“I stood up, too. He was fat and flabby and I was thin and wiry. We
looked each other over.
“'I wouldn't,' says I. 'You're under the doctor's care, you know.'
“So he set down again, not havin' strength even to swear, and watched me
eat my breakfast. And I ate it slow.
“'Say,' he says, finally, 'you think you're mighty smart, don't you.
Well, I'm It, I guess, for this time. I suppose you'll have no objection
to SELLIN' me a breakfast?'
“'No--o,' says I, 'not a mite of objection. I'll sell you a couple of
slices of pork for five dollars a slice and--'
“'FIVE DOLLARS a--!' His mouth dropped open like a main hatch.
“'Sartin,' I says. 'And two slabs of johnnycake at five dollars a slab.
And a cup of coffee at five dollars a cup. And--'
“'You're crazy!' he sputters, jumpin' up.
“'Not much, I ain't. I've been settin' at your feet larnin' high
finance, that's all. You don't seem to be onto the real inwardness of
this deal. I've got the grub market cornered, that's all. The market
price of necessaries is five dollars each now; it's likely to rise at
any time, but now it's five.'
“He looked at me steady for at least two more minutes. Then he got up
and banged out of that shanty. A little later I see him down at the end
of the sand spit starin' out into the fog; lookin' for a sail, I presume
likely.
“I finished my breakfast and washed up the dishes. He come in by and by.
He hadn't had no dinner nor supper, you see, and the salt air gives most
folks an almighty appetite.
“'Say,' he says, 'I've been thinkin'. It's usual in the stock and
provision market to deal on a margin. Suppose I pay you a one per cent
margin now and--'
“'All right,' says I, cheerful. 'Then I'll give you a slip of paper
sayin' that you've bought such and such slices of pork and hunks of
johnnycake and I'm carryin' 'em for you on a margin. Of course there
ain't no delivery of the goods now because--'
“'Humph!' he interrupts, sour. 'You seem to know more'n I thought you
did. Now are you goin' to be decent and make me a fair price or ain't
you?'
“'Can't sell under the latest quotations,' says I. 'That's five now; and
spot cash.'
“'But hang it all!' he says, 'I haven't got money enough with me. Think
I carry a national bank around in my clothes?'
“'You carry a Wellmouth Bank check book,' says I, 'because I see it in
your jacket pocket last night when I was dryin' your duds. I'll take a
check.'
“He started to say somethin' and then stopped. After a spell he seemed
to give in all to once.
“'Very good,' he says. 'You get my breakfast ready and I'll make out the
check.'
“That breakfast cost him twenty-five dollars; thirty really, because he
added another five for an extry cup of coffee. I told him to make the
check payable to 'Bearer,' as 'twas quicker to write than 'Solomon.'
“He had two more meals that day and at bedtime I had his checks
amountin' to ninety-five dollars. The fog stayed with us all the time
and nobody come to pick us up. And the next mornin's outlook was just as
bad, bein' a drizzlin' rain and a high wind. The mainland beach was in
sight but that's all except salt water and rain.
“He was surprisin'ly cheerful all that day, eatin' like a horse
and givin' up his meal checks without a whimper. If things had been
different from what they was I'd have felt like a mean sneak thief.
BEIN' as they was, I counted up the hundred and ten I'd made that day
without a pinch of conscience.
“This was a Wednesday. On Thursday, the third day of our Robinson
Crusoe business, the weather was still thick, though there was signs of
clearin'. Fatty come to me after breakfast--which cost him thirty-five,
payable, as usual, to 'Bearer'--with almost a grin on his big face.
“'Berry,' he says, 'I owe you an apology. I thought you was a green
Rube, like the rest down here, but you're as sharp as they make 'em. I
ain't the man to squeal when I get let in on a bad deal, and the chap
who can work me for a sucker is entitled to all he can make. But this
pay-as-you-go business is too slow and troublesome. What'll you take for
the rest of the grub in the locker there, spot cash? Be white, and make
a fair price.'
“I'd been expectin' somethin' like this, and I was ready for him.
“'Two hundred and sixty-five dollars,' says I, prompt.
“He done a little figgerin'. 'Well, allowin' that I have to put up on
this heap of desolation for the better part of four days more, that's
cheap, accordin' to your former rates,' he says. 'I'll go you. But why
not make it two fifty, even?'
“'Two hundred and sixty-five's my price,' says I. So he handed over
another 'Bearer' check, and his board bill was paid for a week.
“Friday was a fine day, clear as a bell. Me and Williams had a real
picnicky, sociable time. Livin' outdoor this way had made him forget his
diseases and the doctor, and he showed signs of bein' ha'fway decent. We
loafed around and talked and dug clams to help out the pork--that is, I
dug 'em and Fatty superintended. We see no less'n three sailin' craft
go by down the bay and tried our best to signal 'em, but they didn't pay
attention--thought we was gunners or somethin', I presume likely.
“At breakfast on Saturday, Williams begun to ask questions again.
“'Sol,' says he, 'it surprised me to find that you knew what a “margin”
was. You didn't get that from anything I said. Where did you get it?'
“I leaned back on my box seat.
“'Mr. Williams,' says I, 'I cal'late I'll tell you a little story, if
you want to hear it. 'Tain't much of a yarn, as yarns go, but maybe
it'll interest you. The start of it goes back to consider'ble many year
ago, when I was poorer'n I be now, and a mighty sight younger. At that
time me and another feller, a partner of mine, had a fish weir out in
the bay here. The mackerel struck in and we done well, unusual well.
At the end of the season, not countin' what we'd spent for livin' and
expenses, we had a balance owin' us at our fish dealer's up to Boston
of five hundred dollars--two fifty apiece. My partner was goin' to
be married in the spring and was cal'latin' to use his share to buy
furniture for the new house with. So we decided we'd take a trip up
to Boston and collect the money, stick it into some savin's bank where
'twould draw interest until spring and then haul it out and use it.
'Twas about every cent we had in the world.
“'So to Boston we went, collected our money, got the address of a safe
bank and started out to find it. But on the way my partner's hat blowed
off and the bank address, which was on a slip of paper inside of it, got
lost. So we see a sign on a buildin', along with a lot of others, that
kind of suggested bankin', and so we stepped into the buildin' and went
upstairs to ask the way again.
“'The place wa'n't very big, but 'twas fixed up fancy and there was a
kind of blackboard along the end of the room where a boy was markin' up
figgers in chalk. A nice, smilin' lookin' man met us and, when we told
him what we wanted, he asked us to set down. Then, afore we knowed it
almost, we'd told him the whole story--about the five hundred and all.
The feller said to hold on a spell and he'd go along with us and show us
where the savin's bank was himself.
“'So we waited and all the time the figgers kept goin' up on the board,
under signs of “Pork” and “Wheat” and “Cotton” and such, and we'd hear
how so and so's account was makin' a thousand a day, and the like of
that. After a while the nice man, who it turned out was one of the
bosses of the concern, told us what it meant. Seemed there was a big
“rise” in the market and them that bought now was bound to get rich
quick. Consequent we said we wished we could buy and get rich, too. And
the smilin' chap says, “Let's go have some lunch.”'
“Williams laughed. 'Ho, ho!' says he. 'Expensive lunch, was it?'
“'Most extravagant meal of vittles ever I got away with,' I says. 'Cost
me and my partner two hundred and fifty apiece, that lunch did. We
stayed in Boston two days, and on the afternoon of the second day we
was on our way back totin' a couple of neat but expensive slips of paper
signifyin' that we'd bought December and May wheat on a one per cent
margin. We was a hundred ahead already, 'cordin' to the blackboard, and
was figgerin' what sort of palaces we'd build when we cashed in.'
“'Ain't no use preachin' a long sermon over the remains. 'Twas a simple
funeral and nobody sent flowers. Inside of a month we was cleaned
out and the wheat place had gone out of business--failed, busted, you
understand. Our fish dealer friend asked some questions, and found out
the shebang wa'n't a real stock dealer's at all. 'Twas what they call
a “bucket shop,” and we'd bought nothin' but air, and paid a commission
for buyin' it. And the smilin', nice man that run the swindle had been
hangin' on the edge of bust for a long while and knowed 'twas comin'.
Our five hundred had helped pay his way to a healthier climate, that's
all.'
“'Hold on a minute,' says Fatty, lookin' more interested. 'What was the
name of the firm that took you greenhorns in?'
“''Twas the Empire Bond, Stock and Grain Exchange,' says I. 'And 'twas
on Derbyshire Street.'
“He give a little jump. Then he says, slow, Hu-u-m! I--see.'
“'Yes,' says I. 'I thought you would. You had a mustache then and your
name was diff'rent, but you seemed familiar just the same. When your
false hair got washed off I knew you right away.'
“He took out his pocket pen and his check book and done a little
figgerin'.
“'Humph!' he says, again. 'You lost five hundred and I've paid you five
hundred and five. What's the five for?'
“'That's my commission on the sales,' I says.
“And just then comes a hail from outside the shanty. Out we bolted
and there was Sam Davis, just steppin' ashore from his power boat.
Williams's housekeeper had strained a p'int and had shaded her orders by
a couple of days.
“Williams and Sam started for home right off. I followed in the Shootin'
Star, havin' borrered gasoline enough for the run. I reached the dock
ha'f an hour after they did, and there was Fatty waitin' for me.
“'Berry,' says he, 'I've got a word or two to say to you. I ain't
kickin' at your givin' me tit for tat, or tryin' to. Turn about's fair
play, if you can call the turn. But it's against my principles to allow
anybody to beat me on a business deal. Do you suppose,' he says, 'that
I'd have paid your robber's prices without a word if I hadn't had
somethin' up my sleeve? Why, man,' says he, 'I gave you my CHECKS, not
cash. And I've just telephoned to the Wellmouth Bank to stop payment
on those checks. They're no earthly use to you; see? There's one or two
things about high finance that you don't know even yet. Ho, ho!'
“And he rocked back and forth on his heels and laughed.
“I held up my hand. 'Wait a jiffy, Mr. Williams,' says I. 'I guess these
checks are all right. When we fust landed on Woodchuck, I judged by the
looks of the shanty that Baker hadn't left it for good. I cal'lated
he'd be back. And sure enough he come back, in his catboat, on Thursday
evenin', after you'd turned in. Them checks was payable to “Bearer,”
you remember, so I give 'em to him. He was to cash 'em in the fust thing
Friday mornin', and I guess you'll find he's done it.'”
“Well, I swan to MAN!” interrupted the astonished and delighted Phinney.
“So you had him after all! And I was scart you'd lost every cent.”
Captain Sol chuckled. “Yes,” he went on, “I had him, and his eyes and
mouth opened together.
“'WHAT?' he bellers. 'Do you mean to say that a boat stopped at that
dummed island and DIDN'T TAKE US OFF?'
“'Oh,' says I, 'Darius didn't feel called on to take you off, not after
I told him who you was. You see, Mr. Williams,' I says, 'Darius Baker
was my partner in that wheat speculation I was tellin' you about.'”
The Captain drew a long breath and re-lit his cigar, which had gone out.
His friend pounded the settee ecstatically.
“There!” he cried. “I knew the name 'Darius Baker' wa'n't so strange to
me. When was you and him in partners, Sol?”
“Oh, 'way back in the old days, afore I went to sea at all, and afore
mother died. You wouldn't remember much about it. Mother and I was
livin' in Trumet then and our house here was shut up. I was only a kid,
or not much more, and Williams was young, too.”
“And that's the way he made his money! HIM! Why, he's the most respected
man in this neighborhood, and goes to church, and--”
“Yes. Well, if you make money ENOUGH you can always be respected--by
some kinds of people--and find some church that'll take you in. Ain't
that so, Bailey?”
Captain Stitt and his cousin, Obed Gott, the paint dealer, were standing
in the doorway of the station. They now entered.
“I guess it's so,” replied Stitt, pulling up a chair, “though I don't
know what you was talkin' about. However, it's a pretty average safe bet
that what you say is so, Sol, 'most any time. What's the special 'so,'
this time?”
“We was talkin' about Mr. Williams,” began Phinney.
“The Grand Panjandrum of East Harniss,” broke in the depot master. “East
Harniss is blessed with a great man, Bailey, and, like consider'ble many
blessin's he ain't entirely unmixed.”
Obed and Simeon looked puzzled, but Captain Stitt bounced in his chair
like a good-natured rubber ball. “Ho! ho!” he chuckled, “you don't
surprise me, Sol. We had a great man over to South Orham three years ago
and he begun by blessin's and ended with--with t'other thing. Ho! ho!”
“What do you mean?” demanded Sim.
“Why, I mean Stingy Gabe. You've heard of Stingy Gabe, ain't you?”
“I guess we've all heard somethin' about him,” laughed Captain Sol; “but
we're willin' to hear more. He was a reformer, wa'n't he?”
“He sartin was! Ho! ho!”
“For the land sakes, tell it, Bailey,” demanded Mr. Gott impatiently.
“Don't sit there bouncin' and gurglin' and gettin' purple in the face.
Tell it, or you'll bust tryin' to keep it in.”
“Oh, it's a great, long--” began Captain Bailey protestingly.
“Go on,” urged Phinney. “We've got more time than anything else, the
most of us. Who was this Stingy Gabe?”
“Yes,” urged Gott, “and what did he reform?”
Captain Stitt held up a compelling hand. “It's all of a piece,” he
interrupted. “It takes in everything, like an eatin'-house stew. And,
as usual in them cases, the feller that ordered it didn't know what was
comin' to him.
“Stingy Gabe was that feller. His Sunday name was Gabriel Atkinson
Holway, and his dad used to peddle fish from Orham to Denboro and back.
The old man was christened Gabriel, likewise. He owed 'most everybody,
and, besides, was so mean that he kept the scales and trimmin's of the
fish he sold to make chowder for himself and family. All hands called
him 'Stingy Gabe,' and the boy inherited the name along with the
fifteen hundred dollars that the old man left when he died. He cleared
out--young Gabe did--soon as the will was settled and afore the
outstandin' debts was, and nobody in this latitude see hide nor hair of
him till three years ago this comin' spring.
“Then, lo and behold you! he drops off the parlor car at the Orham
station and cruises down to South Orham, bald-headed and bay-windowed,
sufferin' from pomp and prosperity. Seems he'd been spendin' his life
cornerin' copper out West and then copperin' the corners in Wall Street.
The folks in his State couldn't put him in jail, so they sent him to
Congress. Now, as the Honorable Atkinson Holway, he'd come back to the
Cape to rest his wrist, which had writer's cramp from signin' stock
certificates, and to ease his eyes with a sight of the dear old home of
his boyhood.
“Bill Nickerson comes postin' down to me with the news.
“'Bailey,' says he, 'what do you think's happened? Stingy Gabe's struck
the town.'
“'For how much?' I asks, anxious. 'Don't let him have it, whatever
'tis.'
“Then he went on to explain. Gabe was rich as all get out, and 'twas
his intention to buy back his old man's house and fix it up for a summer
home. He was delighted to find how little change there was in South
Orham.
“'No matter if 'tain't but fifteen cents he'll get it, if the s'lectmen
don't watch him,' I says; and the bills, too. I know HIS tribe.'
“'You don't understand,' says Nickerson. 'He ain't no thief. He's rich,
I tell you, and he's cal'latin' to do the town good.'
“'Course he is,' I says. 'It runs in the family. His dad done it good,
too--good as 'twas ever done, I guess.'
“But next day Gabe himself happens along, and I see right off that I'd
made a mistake in my reckonin'. The Honorable Atkinson Holway wa'n't
figgerin' to borrow nothin'. When a chap has been skinnin' halibut,
minnows are too small for him to bother with. Gabe was full of fried
clams and philanthropy.
“'By Jove! Stitt,' he says, 'livin' here has been the dream of my life.'
“'You'll be glad to wake up, won't you?' says I. 'I wish I could.'
“'I tell you,' he says, 'this little old village is all right! All it
needs is a public-spirited resident to help it along. I propose to be
the P. S. R.'
“And on that program he started right in. Fust off he bought his dad's
old place, built it over into the eight-sided palace that's there now,
fetched down a small army of servants skippered by an old housekeeper,
and commenced to live simple but complicated. Then, havin' provided
the needful charity for himself, he's ready to scatter manna for the
starvin' native.
“He had a dozen schemes laid out. One was to build a free but expensive
library; another was to pave the main road with brick; third was to give
stained-glass windows and velvet cushions to the meetin' house, so's
the congregation could sleep comfortable in a subdued light. The
stained-glass idee put him in close touch with the minister, Reverend
Edwin Fisher, and the minister suggested the men's club. And he took to
that men's club scheme like an old maid to strong tea; the rest of the
improvements went into dry dock to refit while Admiral Gabe got his
men's club off the ways.
“'Twas the billiard room that made the minister hanker for a men's club.
That billiard room was the worry of his life. Old man Jotham Gale run
it and had run it sence the Concord fight, in a way of speakin'. You
remember his sign, maybe: 'Jotham W. Gale. Billiard, Pool, and Sipio
Saloon. Cigars and Tobacco. Tonics and Pipes. Minors under Ten Years of
Age not Admitted.' Jotham's customers was called, by the outsiders, 'the
billiard-room gang.'
“The billiard room gang wa'n't the best folks in town, I'll own right up
to that. Still, they wa'n't so turrible wicked. Jotham never sold rum,
and he'd never allow no rows in his place. But, just the same, his
saloon was reckoned a bad influence. Young men hadn't ought to go
there--most of us said that. If there was a nicer place TO go, argues
the minister, 'twould help the moral tone of the community consider'ble.
'Why not,' says he to Stingy Gabe, 'start a free club for men that'll
make the billiard room look like the tail boat in a race?' And says
Gabe: 'Bully! I'll do it.'”
Captain Stitt paused long enough to enjoy a chuckle all by himself.
Before he had quite finished his laugh, slow and reluctant steps were
heard on the back platform and Issy appeared on the threshold. He was
without the package, but did not look happy.
“Well, Is,” inquired the depot master, “did you give the remains to the
Major?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Issy.
“Did you tell him how the shockin' fatality happened? How the thing got
broken?”
“Yes, sir, I told him.”
“What did he say? Didn't let his angry passions rise, did he?”
“No-o; no, sir, he didn't rise nothin'. He didn't get mad neither. But
you could see he felt pretty bad. Talked about 'old family glass' and
'priceless airloons' or some such. Said much as he regretted to, he
should feel it no more'n justice to have somebody pay damages.”
“Humph!” Captain Sol looked very grave. “Issy, I can see your finish.
You'll have to pay for somethin' that's priceless, and how are you goin'
to do that? 'Old family glass,' hey? Hum! And I thought I saw the label
of a Boston store on that package.”
Obed Gott leaned forward eagerly.
“Is that Major Hardee you're talkin' about?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. He's the only Major we've got. Cap'ns are plenty as June
bugs, but Majors and Gen'rals are scarce. Why?”
“Oh, nothin'. Only--” Mr. Gott muttered the remainder of the sentence
under his breath. However, the depot master heard it and his eye
twinkled.
“You're glad of it!” he exclaimed. “Why, Obed! Major Cuthbertson Scott
Hardee! I'm surprised. Better not let the women folks hear you say
that.”
“Look here!” cried Captain Stitt, rather tartly, “am I goin' to finish
that yarn of mine or don't you want to hear it?”
“BEG your pardon, Bailey. Go on. The last thing you said was what Stingy
Gabe said, and that was--”