SOMETHING ABOUT LEAVING THE FARM
CERTAINLY Uncle Arad Tarr had never been so filled with astonishment in
his life as he was upon reading the letter of the mate of the Silver
Swan to the captain’s son.
Diamonds enough to make Brandon a second Vanderbilt! The thought almost
made Arad’s old heart stand still.
“Who’d er-thought it--who’d ever er-thought it?” he muttered weakly,
folding the letter once more, and thrusting it into the pocket of his
patched coat.
Then he picked up the reins and drove on, shaking his head slowly.
“Diamonds enough ter make him rich!” he murmured, with an avaricious
contortion of his face. “Jest ter think o’ Anson Tarr ever gittin’
more’n his bread and butter. It don’t seem ter me he c’d ha’ got ’em
honest.”
He was very ready now, considering the guilty thoughts there were in
his own heart, to declare the fortune gained by his nephew Anson to be
dishonestly obtained.
“It jest stands ter reason,” he went on, “that this ’ere Caleb
Wetherbee isn’t er--er trustworthy person to hev charge o’ Brandon--or
them di’monds either. I mus’ hev them papers made out jes’ as soon as
th’ square kin do it, an’ then I kin find that ’ere wreck--er hev it
found--m’self.”
His mind at once reverted to Jim Leroyd, the sailor with whom he had
entered into a compact to “divide the spoils,” and he shook his head
again doubtfully.
“He ain’t jes’ th’ man I’d er chosen ter do th’ work fur me,” muttered
the old sinner; “but then, he’s the old sailor I know, an’ it’s got ter
take a sailor, I s’pose, ter go ter them furrin parts.
“He knows suthin’ erbout it already, too, an’ it wouldn’t do ter let
him git mad an’ go an’ tell this ’ere Wetherbee; then mebbe I couldn’t
git th’ papers from him. But th’ fust thing is ter hev thet ’p’intment
as guardeen fixed up.”
Brandon was in the yard when he arrived, and good naturedly put up the
horse for him.
“I’ve seen Mrs. Hemingway, uncle,” he said cheerfully, “and she’ll
be up here tomorrow morning. I shall take the stage to town in the
morning, and go to New York on the evening train, I guess.”
“Ye will, eh?” returned Uncle Arad, showing his teeth.
“Yes. Now you mustn’t get uppish, uncle. You didn’t suppose I would
stay here very long any way, did you?”
“I s’pect ye’ll stay here a spell,” replied the old man, with a cunning
leer. “I ain’t fed an’ su’ported ye in lux’ry fur nigh four year fur
nothin’. Ye’ll stay here as my ward fur yer minor’ty, now I tell ye.”
But Brandon was laughing over the thought of Uncle Arad’s “luxury,”
and did not hear the last of his speech.
He did the most of the chores about the house and barn, as was usual,
and helped prepare the extremely frugal meal which Uncle Arad’s larder
afforded.
“By George!” he thought, as he set about this latter task, “if I was in
the forecastle of some old ‘hooker’ I shouldn’t have worse fare than
this. I declare I’ll go off tomorrow before breakfast. This will be my
last meal at Uncle Arad’s table for one spell at least.”
But he said nothing further about going away, knowing that it would
only anger the old man. Before the dishes were cleared away after
the meal, there was the sound of wheels at the gate, and in a moment
somebody knocked sharply.
Old Arad himself arose and hobbled to the door, admitting “Square”
Holt into the miserable den of a kitchen. If it had been the President
himself, the old man would not have opened the “best room.”
“Go aout an’ take the square’s boss ’roun’ ter the shed,” harshly
commanded Uncle Arad, and Brandon did as he was bidden, vaguely
suspecting that something was brewing.
When he came into the kitchen again after doing the errand, the parrot
beaked judge was ready for him.
“Young man,” began the judge severely, “your uncle, Mr. Tarr, who has
done so much for you for the past four years, tells me that you have
made a sorry return for all his kindness and bounty.”
“In what?” demanded Brandon rather sharply, for he considered this
interference on the justice’s part as wholly uncalled for.
“Is _that_ the way you speak to your elders, young man?” cried the
judge, aghast. “Have you no respect for gray hairs?”
“I do not see why I should respect _you_, Mr. Holt,” replied Don,
with some temper. “You’ve never given me cause to and I consider that
your questions and remarks are entirely unwarranted. I propose to go
away from my uncle’s house (to whom, by the way, my father paid three
dollars per week board for me up to last fall, and for whom I have done
the work of a regularly hired hand during most of the time I have been
here) I propose to go away, I say, and nothing _you_ or uncle can say
will stop me!”
“Hoighty toighty, young man!” cried the judge; “do you realize to whom
you are speaking?”
“Yes, I do,” responded Brandon hotly. “To one who is known, far and
wide, as the meanest man in Scituate!”
The judge’s ample nasal organ flushed to the color of a well grown
beet; but before he could reply old Arad put in _his_ oar:
“What d’ye mean, ye little upstart?” (Fancy his calling Brandon
_little_, who already stood a good three inches taller than himself!)
“What d’ye mean, sayin’ that I was ever paid fur yer keep? Ye’ve been
nuthin’ but an expense an’ trouble ter me ever since ye come here.”
“That’s an untruth, and you know it,” declared Don, who had quite lost
his temper by this time, and did not behave himself in just the manner
I should have preferred my hero to behave; but Brandon Tarr was a very
human boy, and, I have found, heroes are much like other folks and not
by any means perfect.
“Young man, mark my words!” sputtered “Square” Holt, “you will yet come
to some bad end.”
“I’ll git all this aout o’ ye, afore I’m done with ye, Brandon Tarr,”
declared Uncle Arad, “if I hev ter hire somebody ter lick ye.”
“You wouldn’t do that--you’re too stingy to hire anybody to ‘lick’ me,”
responded Don tartly. “Now I don’t propose to listen to any more of
this foolishness. I’m going away, and I’m going away tomorrow morning.
I’ve eaten my last meal at this house, Uncle Arad!”
“Is that the way to speak to your guardian?” said the judge, with
horror in his tone. “Mr. Tarr, you are too lenient with this young
scoundrel. He should be sent to the State reform school as I suggested.”
“But then I wouldn’t get no work aout o’ him,” the farmer hastened to
say. “I--I’ve got ter git the money back I’ve spent on him, ye know.”
Brandon laughed scornfully.
“I should like to know by what right you call him my guardian, Mr.
Holt?” he asked.
“Wal, I’m goin’ ter be yer guardeen--right off,” Arad hastened to
inform him, before the “square” could reply. “The square’s goin’ ter
make the papers aout ter oncet.”
“They’ll be funny looking documents, I reckon,” said Don, in disgust.
“I understand that Mr. Holt has done several pretty crooked things
since he’s been in office, but this is going a little too far.”
“Young man!” cried the judge, trying to wither the audacious youth with
a glance.
But Don didn’t “wither” at all.
“If you know anything at all about law,” he said to the judge, with
sarcasm, “you know that a guardian can’t be appointed in an hour.
Legal notice must be given and reason shown _why_ a guardian should be
appointed. I’ve no property, and Uncle Arad only wants to control me so
as to have my work. And, besides all that, I am old enough to choose my
own guardian, and you can bet your last cent that I shouldn’t choose
Arad Tarr.”
“It ain’t so! ’tain’t no sich thing, is it, square?” cried old Arad,
in alarm. “Ain’t I th’ proper person to be ’p’inted over my own nevvy?
Ther’ ain’t nobody else got anythin’ ter do with it.”
“He can tell you what he likes,” responded Brandon quickly; “but I’ve
given you the facts. Now I’ve heard enough of this, and I’m going to
bed.” Then he added, turning to Holt: “When you go out to fleece a lamb
next time, Mr. Holt, be pretty sure that the lamb is just as innocent
as you think it.”
He turned away without another word then and left the kitchen, mounting
to his bedroom in the second story of the old house, leaving the
baffled conspirators in a state of wrathful bewilderment.