I never could quite understand why the folks at Wellmouth made me
selectman. I s'pose likely 'twas on account of Jonadab and me and Peter
Brown making such a go of the Old Home House and turning Wellmouth Port
from a sand fleas' paradise into a hospital where city folks could
have their bank accounts amputated and not suffer more'n was necessary.
Anyway, I was elected unanimous at town meeting, and Peter was mighty
anxious for me to take the job.
“Barzilla,” says Peter, “I jedge that a selectman is a sort of dwarf
alderman. Now, I've had friends who've been aldermen, and they say
it's a sure thing, like shaking with your own dice. If you're straight,
there's the honor and the advertisement; if you're crooked, there's the
graft. Either way the house wins. Go in, and glory be with you.”
So I finally agreed to serve, and the very first meeting I went to,
the question of Asaph Blueworthy and the poorhouse comes up. Zoeth
Tiddit--he was town clerk--he puts it this way:
“Gentlemen,” he says, “we have here the usual application from Asaph
Blueworthy for aid from the town. I don't know's there's much use for
me to read it--it's tolerable familiar. 'Suffering from lumbago and
rheumatiz'--um, yes. 'Out of work'--um, just so. 'Respectfully begs that
the board will'--etcetery and so forth. Well, gentlemen, what's your
pleasure?”
Darius Gott, he speaks first, and dry and drawling as ever. “Out of
work, hey?” says Darius. “Mr. Chairman, I should like to ask if anybody
here remembers the time when Ase was IN work?”
Nobody did, and Cap'n Benijah Poundberry--he was chairman at that
time--he fetches the table a welt with his starboard fist and comes out
emphatic.
“Feller members,” says he, “I don't know how the rest of you feel, but
it's my opinion that this board has done too much for that lazy loafer
already. Long's his sister, Thankful, lived, we couldn't say nothing, of
course. If she wanted to slave and work so's her brother could live
in idleness and sloth, why, that was her business. There ain't any law
against a body's making a fool of herself, more's the pity. But she's
been dead a year, and he's done nothing since but live on those that'll
trust him, and ask help from the town. He ain't sick--except sick of
work. Now, it's my idea that, long's he's bound to be a pauper, he
might's well be treated as a pauper. Let's send him to the poorhouse.”
“But,” says I, “he owns his place down there by the shore, don't he?”
All hands laughed--that is, all but Cap'n Benijah. “Own nothing,” says
the cap'n. “The whole rat trap, from the keel to maintruck, ain't worth
more'n three hundred dollars, and I loaned Thankful four hundred on
it years ago, and the mortgage fell due last September. Not a cent of
principal, interest, nor rent have I got since. Whether he goes to the
poorhouse or not, he goes out of that house of mine to-morrer. A man
can smite me on one cheek and maybe I'll turn t'other, but when, after
I HAVE turned it, he finds fault 'cause my face hurts his hand, then I
rise up and quit; you hear ME!”
Nobody could help hearing him, unless they was deefer than the feller
that fell out of the balloon and couldn't hear himself strike, so all
hands agreed that sending Asaph Blueworthy to the poorhouse would be a
good thing. 'Twould be a lesson to Ase, and would give the poorhouse one
more excuse for being on earth. Wellmouth's a fairly prosperous town,
and the paupers had died, one after the other, and no new ones had come,
until all there was left in the poorhouse was old Betsy Mullen, who was
down with creeping palsy, and Deborah Badger, who'd been keeper ever
since her husband died.
The poorhouse property was valuable, too, specially for a summer
cottage, being out on the end of Robbin's Point, away from the town, and
having a fine view right across the bay. Zoeth Tiddit was a committee
of one with power from the town to sell the place, but he hadn't found
a customer yet. And if he did sell it, what to do with Debby was more
or less of a question. She'd kept poorhouse for years, and had no other
home nor no relations to go to. Everybody liked her, too--that is,
everybody but Cap'n Benijah. He was down on her 'cause she was a
Spiritualist and believed in fortune tellers and such. The cap'n, bein'
a deacon of the Come-Outer persuasion, was naturally down on folks who
wasn't broad-minded enough to see that his partic'lar crack in the roof
was the only way to crawl through to glory.
Well, we voted to send Asaph to the poorhouse, and then I was appointed
a delegate to see him and tell him he'd got to go. I wasn't enthusiastic
over the job, but everybody said I was exactly the feller for the place.
“To tell you the truth,” drawls Darius, “you, being a stranger, are the
only one that Ase couldn't talk over. He's got a tongue that's buttered
on both sides and runs on ball bearings. If I should see him he'd work
on my sympathies till I'd lend him the last two-cent piece in my baby's
bank.”
So, as there wa'n't no way out of it, I drove down to Asaph's that
afternoon. He lived off on a side road by the shore, in a little,
run-down shanty that was as no account as he was. When I moored my horse
to the “heavenly-wood” tree by what was left of the fence, I would have
bet my sou'wester that I caught a glimpse of Brother Blueworthy, peeking
round the corner of the house. But when I turned that corner there was
nobody in sight, although the bu'sted wash-bench, with a cranberry crate
propping up its lame end, was shaking a little, as if some one had set
on it recent.
I knocked on the door, but nobody answered. After knocking three or
four times, I tried kicking, and the second kick raised, from somewheres
inside, a groan that was as lonesome a sound as ever I heard. No human
noise in my experience come within a mile of it for dead, downright
misery--unless, maybe, it's Cap'n Jonadab trying to sing in meeting
Sundays.
“Who's that?” wails Ase from 'tother side of the door. “Did anybody
knock?”
“Knock!” says I. “I all but kicked your everlasting derelict out of
water. It's me, Wingate--one of the selectmen. Tumble up, there! I want
to talk to you.”
Blueworthy didn't exactly tumble, so's to speak, but the door opened,
and he comes shuffling and groaning into sight. His face was twisted up
and he had one hand spread-fingered on the small of his back.
“Dear, dear!” says he. “I'm dreadful sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr.
Wingate. I've been wrastling with this turrible lumbago, and I'm 'fraid
it's affecting my hearing. I'll tell you--”
“Yes--well, you needn't mind,” I says; “'cordin' to common tell, you
was born with that same kind of lumbago, and it's been getting no better
fast ever since. Jest drag your sufferings out onto this bench and come
to anchor. I've got considerable to say, and I'm in a hurry.”
Well, he grunted, and groaned, and scuffled along. When he'd got planted
on the bench he didn't let up any--kept on with the misery.
“Look here,” says I, losing patience, “when you get through with the
Job business I'll heave ahead and talk. Don't let me interrupt the
lamentations on no account. Finished? All right. Now, you listen to me.”
And then I told him just how matters stood. His house was to be seized
on the mortgage, and he was to move to the poorhouse next day. You never
see a man more surprised or worse cut up. Him to the poorhouse? HIM--one
of the oldest families on the Cape? You'd think he was the Grand
Panjandrum. Well, the dignity didn't work, so he commenced on the
lumbago; and that didn't work, neither. But do you think he give up the
ship? Not much; he commenced to explain why he hadn't been able to earn
a living and the reasons why he'd ought to have another chance. Talk!
Well, if I hadn't been warned he'd have landed ME, all right. I never
heard a better sermon nor one with more long words in it.
I actually pitied him. It seemed a shame that a feller who could argue
like that should have to go to the poorhouse; he'd ought to run a summer
hotel--when the boarders kicked 'cause there was yeller-eyed beans in
the coffee he would be the one to explain that they was lucky to get
beans like that without paying extra for 'em. Thinks I, “I'm an idiot,
but I'll make him one more offer.”
So I says: “See here, Mr. Blueworthy, I could use another man in the
stable at the Old Home House. If you want the job you can have it. ONLY,
you'll have to work, and work hard.”
Well, sir, would you believe it?--his face fell like a cook-book cake.
That kind of chance wa'n't what he was looking for. He shuffled and
hitched around, and finally he says: “I'll--Ill consider your offer,” he
says.
That was too many for me. “Well, I'll be yardarmed!” says I, and went
off and left him “considering.” I don't know what his considerations
amounted to. All I know is that next day they took him to the poorhouse.
And from now on this yarn has got to be more or less hearsay. I'll have
to put this and that together, like the woman that made the mince meat.
Some of the facts I got from a cousin of Deborah Badger's, some of them
I wormed out of Asaph himself one time when he'd had a jug come down
from the city and was feeling toler'ble philanthropic and conversationy.
But I guess they're straight enough.
Seems that, while I was down notifying Blueworthy, Cap'n Poundberry
had gone over to the poorhouse to tell the Widow Badger about her new
boarder. The widow was glad to hear the news.
“He'll be somebody to talk to, at any rate,” says she. “Poor old Betsy
Mullen ain't exactly what you'd call company for a sociable body. But
I'll mind what you say, Cap'n Benijah. It takes more than a slick tongue
to come it over me. I'll make that lazy man work or know the reason
why.”
So when Asaph arrived--per truck wagon--at three o'clock the next
afternoon, Mrs. Badger was ready for him. She didn't wait to shake hands
or say: “Glad to see you.” No, sir! The minute he landed she sent him
out by the barn with orders to chop a couple of cords of oak slabs that
was piled there. He groaned and commenced to develop lumbago symptoms,
but she cured 'em in a hurry by remarking that her doctor's book said
vig'rous exercise was the best physic, for that kind of disease, and
so he must chop hard. She waited till she heard the ax “chunk” once or
twice, and then she went into the house, figgering that she'd gained the
first lap, anyhow.
But in an hour or so it come over her all of a sudden that 'twas awful
quiet out by the woodpile. She hurried to the back door, and there was
Ase, setting on the ground in the shade, his eyes shut and his back
against the chopping block, and one poor lonesome slab in front of him
with a couple of splinters knocked off it. That was his afternoon's
work.
Maybe you think the widow wa'n't mad. She tip-toed out to the wood-pile,
grabbed her new boarder by the coat collar and shook him till his head
played “Johnny Comes Marching Home” against the chopping block.
“You lazy thing, you!” says she, with her eyes snapping. “Wake up and
tell me what you mean by sleeping when I told you to work.”
“Sleep?” stutters Asaph, kind of reaching out with his mind for a
life-preserver. “I--I wa'n't asleep.”
Well, I don't think he had really meant to sleep. I guess he just set
down to think of a good brand new excuse for not working, and kind of
drowsed off.
“You wa'n't hey?” says Deborah. “Then 'twas the best imitation ever _I_
see. What WAS you doing, if 'tain't too personal a question?”
“I--I guess I must have fainted. I'm subject to such spells. You see,
ma'am, I ain't been well for--”
“Yes, I know. I understand all about that. Now, you march your boots
into that house, where I can keep an eye on you, and help me get supper.
To-morrer morning you'll get up at five o'clock and chop wood till
breakfast time. If I think you've chopped enough, maybe you'll get the
breakfast. If I don't think so you'll keep on chopping. Now, march!”
Blueworthy, he marched, but 'twa'n't as joyful a parade as an Odd
Fellers' picnic. He could see he'd made a miscue--a clean miss, and
the white ball in the pocket. He knew, too, that a lot depended on his
making a good impression the first thing, and instead of that he'd gone
and “foozled his approach,” as that city feller said last summer when
he ran the catboat plump into the end of the pier. Deborah, she went out
into the kitchen, but she ordered Ase to stay in the dining room and set
the table; told him to get the dishes out of the closet.
All the time he was doing it he kept thinking about the mistake he'd
made, and wondering if there wa'n't some way to square up and get solid
with the widow. Asaph was a good deal of a philosopher, and his motto
was--so he told me afterward, that time I spoke of when he'd been
investigating the jug--his motto was: “Every hard shell has a soft spot
somewheres, and after you find it, it's easy.” If he could only find
out something that Deborah Badger was particular interested in, then
he believed he could make a ten-strike. And, all at once, down in the
corner of the closet, he see a big pile of papers and magazines. The one
on top was the Banner of Light, and underneath that was the Mysterious
Magazine.
Then he remembered, all of a sudden, the town talk about Debby's
believing in mediums and spooks and fortune tellers and such. And he
commenced to set up and take notice.
At the supper table he was as mum as a rundown clock; just set in his
chair and looked at Mrs. Badger. She got nervous and fidgety after a
spell, and fin'lly bu'sts out with: “What are you staring at me like
that for?”
Ase kind of jumped and looked surprised. “Staring?” says he. “Was I
staring?”
“I should think you was! Is my hair coming down, or what is it?”
He didn't answer for a minute, but he looked over her head and then
away acrost the room, as if he was watching something that moved. “Your
husband was a short, kind of fleshy man, as I remember, wa'n't he?” says
he, absent-minded like.
“Course he was. But what in the world--”
“'Twa'n't him, then. I thought not.”
“HIM? My husband? What DO you mean?”
And then Asaph begun to put on the fine touches. He leaned acrost the
table and says he, in a sort of mysterious whisper: “Mrs. Badger,” says
he, “do you ever see things? Not common things, but strange--shadders
like?”
“Mercy me!” says the widow. “No. Do YOU?”
“Sometimes seems's if I did. Jest now, as I set here looking at you, it
seemed as if I saw a man come up and put his hand on your shoulder.”
Well, you can imagine Debby. She jumped out of her chair and whirled
around like a kitten in a fit. “Good land!” she hollers. “Where? What?
Who was it?”
“I don't know who 'twas. His face was covered up; but it kind of come to
me--a communication, as you might say--that some day that man was going
to marry you.”
“Land of love! Marry ME? You're crazy! I'm scart to death.”
Ase shook his head, more mysterious than ever. “I don't know,” says he.
“Maybe I am crazy. But I see that same man this afternoon, when I was in
that trance, and--”
“Trance! Do you mean to tell me you was in a TRANCE out there by the
wood-pile? Are you a MEDIUM?”
Well, Ase, he wouldn't admit that he was a medium exactly, but he give
her to understand that there wa'n't many mediums in this country that
could do business 'longside of him when he was really working. 'Course
he made believe he didn't want to talk about such things, and, likewise
of course, that made Debby all the more anxious TO talk about 'em.
She found out that her new boarder was subject to trances and had
second-sight and could draw horoscopes, and I don't know what all.
Particular she wanted to know more about that “man” that was going to
marry her, but Asaph wouldn't say much about him.
“All I can say is,” says Ase, “that he didn't appear to me like a
common man. He was sort of familiar looking, and yet there was something
distinguished about him, something uncommon, as you might say. But this
much comes to me strong: He's a man any woman would be proud to get, and
some time he's coming to offer you a good home. You won't have to keep
poorhouse all your days.”
So the widow went up to her room with what you might call a case of
delightful horrors. She was too scart to sleep and frightened to stay
awake. She kept two lamps burning all night.
As for Asaph, he waited till 'twas still, and then he crept downstairs
to the closet, got an armful of Banners of Light and Mysterious
Magazines, and went back to his room to study up. Next morning there was
nothing said about wood chopping--Ase was busy making preparations to
draw Debby's horoscope.
You can see how things went after that. Blueworthy was star boarder
at that poorhouse. Mrs Badger was too much interested in spooks and
fortunes to think of asking him to work, and if she did hint at such a
thing, he'd have another “trance” and see that “man,” and 'twas all off.
And we poor fools of selectmen was congratulating ourselves that Ase
Blueworthy was doing something toward earning his keep at last. And
then--'long in July 'twas--Betsy Mullen died.
One evening, just after the Fourth, Deborah and Asaph was in the dining
room, figgering out fortunes with a pack of cards, when there comes a
knock at the door. The widow answered it, and there was an old chap,
dressed in a blue suit, and a stunning pretty girl in what these summer
women make believe is a sea-going rig. And both of 'em was sopping wet
through, and as miserable as two hens in a rain barrel.
It turned out that the man's name was Lamont, with a colonel's pennant
and a million-dollar mark on the foretop of it, and the girl was his
daughter Mabel. They'd been paying six dollars a day each for sea air
and clam soup over to the Wattagonsett House, in Harniss, and either
the soup or the air had affected the colonel's head till he imagined he
could sail a boat all by his ownty-donty. Well, he'd sailed one acrost
the bay and got becalmed, and then the tide took him in amongst the
shoals at the mouth of Wellmouth Crick, and there, owing to a mixup of
tide, shoals, dark, and an overdose of foolishness, the boat had upset
and foundered and the Lamonts had waded half a mile or so to shore.
Once on dry land, they'd headed up the bluff for the only port in sight,
which was the poorhouse--although they didn't know it.
The widow and Asaph made 'em as comfortable as they could; rigged 'em
up in dry clothes which had belonged to departed paupers, and got 'em
something to eat. The Lamonts was what they called “enchanted” with the
whole establishment.
“This,” says the colonel, with his mouth full of brown bread, “is
delightful, really delightful. The New England hospitality that we read
about. So free from ostentation and conventionality.”
When you stop to think of it, you'd scurcely expect to run acrost much
ostentation at the poorhouse, but, of course, the colonel didn't know,
and he praised everything so like Sam Hill, that the widow was ashamed
to break the news to him. And Ase kept quiet, too, you can be sure of
that. As for Mabel, she was one of them gushy, goo-gooey kind of girls,
and she was as struck with the shebang as her dad. She said the house
itself was a “perfect dear.”
And after supper they paired off and got to talking, the colonel with
Mrs. Badger, and Asaph with Mabel. Now, I can just imagine how Ase
talked to that poor, unsuspecting young female. He sartin did love an
audience, and here was one that didn't know him nor his history, nor
nothing. He played the sad and mysterious. You could see that he was a
blighted bud, all right. He was a man with a hidden sorrer, and the way
he'd sigh and change the subject when it come to embarrassing questions
was enough to bring tears to a graven image, let alone a romantic girl
just out of boarding school.
Then, after a spell of this, Mabel wanted to be shown the house, so as
to see the “sweet, old-fashioned rooms.” And she wanted papa to see 'em,
too, so Ase led the way, like the talking man in the dime museum. And
the way them Lamonts agonized over every rag mat, and corded bedstead
was something past belief. When they was saying good-night--they HAD to
stay all night because their own clothes wa'n't dry and those they had
on were more picturesque than stylish--Mabel turns to her father and
says she:
“Papa, dear,” she says, “I believe that at last we've found the very
thing we've been looking for.”
And the colonel said yes, he guessed they had. Next morning they was up
early and out enjoying the view; it IS about the best view alongshore,
and they had a fit over it. When breakfast was done the Lamonts takes
Asaph one side and the colonel says:
“Mr. Blueworthy,” he says, “my daughter and I am very much pleased with
the Cape and the Cape people. Some time ago we made up our minds that
if we could find the right spot we would build a summer home here.
Preferably we wish to purchase a typical, old-time, Colonial homestead
and remodel it, retaining, of course, all the original old-fashioned
flavor. Cost is not so much the consideration as location and the house
itself. We are--ahem!--well, frankly, your place here suits us exactly.”
“We adore it,” says Mabel, emphatic.
“Mr. Blueworthy,” goes on the colonel, “will you sell us your home? I am
prepared to pay a liberal price.”
Poor Asaph was kind of throwed on his beam ends, so's to speak. He
hemmed and hawed, and finally had to blurt out that he didn't own the
place. The Lamonts was astonished. The colonel wanted to know if it
belonged to Mrs. Badger.
“Why, no,” says Ase. “The fact is--that is to say--you see--”
And just then the widow opened the kitchen window and called to 'em.
“Colonel Lamont,” says she, “there's a sailboat beating up the harbor,
and I think the folks on it are looking for you.”
The colonel excused himself, and run off down the hill toward the back
side of the point, and Asaph was left alone with the girl. He see, I
s'pose, that here was his chance to make the best yarn out of what was
bound to come out anyhow in a few minutes. So he fetched a sigh that
sounded as if 'twas racking loose the foundations and commenced.
He asked Mabel if she was prepared to hear something that would shock
her turrible, something that would undermine her confidence in human
natur'. She was a good deal upset, and no wonder, but she braced up and
let on that she guessed she could stand it. So then he told her that
her dad and her had been deceived, that that house wa'n't his nor Mrs.
Badger's; 'twas the Wellmouth poor farm, and he was a pauper.
She was shocked, all right enough, but afore she had a chance to ask
a question, he begun to tell her the story of his life. 'Twas a fine
chance for him to spread himself, and I cal'late he done it to the
skipper's taste. He told her how him and his sister had lived in their
little home, their own little nest, over there by the shore, for years
and years. He led her out to where she could see the roof of his old
shanty over the sand hills, and he wiped his eyes and raved over it.
You'd think that tumble-down shack was a hunk out of paradise; Adam and
Eve's place in the Garden was a short lobster 'longside of it. Then, he
said, he was took down with an incurable disease. He tried and tried to
get along, but 'twas no go. He mortgaged the shanty to a grasping money
lender--meanin' Poundberry--and that money was spent. Then his sister
passed away and his heart broke; so they took him to the poorhouse.
“Miss Lamont,” says he, “good-by. Sometimes in the midst of your
fashionable career, in your gayety and so forth, pause,” he says, “and
give a thought to the broken-hearted pauper who has told you his life
tragedy.”
Well, now, you take a green girl, right fresh from novels and music
lessons, and spring that on her--what can you expect? Mabel, she cried
and took on dreadful.
“Oh, Mr. Blueworthy!” says she, grabbing his hand. “I'm SO glad you told
me. I'm SO glad! Cheer up,” she says. “I respect you more than ever, and
my father and I will--”
Just then the colonel comes puffing up the hill. He looked as if he'd
heard news.
“My child,” he says in a kind of horrified whisper, “can you realize
that we have actually passed the night in the--in the ALMSHOUSE?”
Mabel held up her hand. “Hush, papa,” she says. “Hush. I know all about
it. Come away, quick; I've got something very important to say to you.”
And she took her dad's arm and went off down the hill, mopping her
pretty eyes with her handkerchief and smiling back, every once in a
while, through her tears, at Asaph.
Now, it happened that there was a selectmen's meeting that afternoon
at four o'clock. I was on hand, and so was Zoeth Tiddit and most of the
others. Cap'n Poundberry and Darius Gott were late. Zoeth was as happy
as a clam at high water; he'd sold the poorhouse property that very day
to a Colonel Lamont, from Harniss, who wanted it for a summer place.
“And I got the price we set on it, too,” says Zoeth. “But that wa'n't
the funniest part of it. Seems's old man Lamont and his daughter was
very much upset because Debby Badger and Ase Blueworthy would be turned
out of house and home 'count of the place being sold. The colonel was
hot foot for giving 'em a check for five hundred dollars to square
things; said his daughter'd made him promise he would. Says I: 'You
can give it to Debby, if you want to, but don't lay a copper on that
Blueworthy fraud.' Then I told him the truth about Ase. He couldn't
hardly believe it, but I finally convinced him, and he made out the
check to Debby. I took it down to her myself just after dinner. Ase was
there, and his eyes pretty nigh popped out of his head.
“'Look here,' I says to him; 'if you'd been worth a continental
you might have had some of this. As it is, you'll be farmed out
somewheres--that's what'll happen to YOU.'”
And as Zoeth was telling this, in comes Cap'n Benijah. He was happy,
too.
“I cal'late the Lamonts must be buying all the property alongshore,”
he says when he heard the news. “I sold that old shack that I took
from Blueworthy to that Lamont girl to-day for three hundred and fifty
dollars. She wouldn't say what she wanted of it, neither, and I didn't
care much; _I_ was glad to get rid of it.”
“_I_ can tell you what she wanted of it,” says somebody behind us. We
turned round and 'twas Gott; he'd come in. “I just met Squire Foster,”
he says, “and the squire tells me that that Lamont girl come into his
office with the bill of sale for the property you sold her and made him
deed it right over to Ase Blueworthy, as a present from her.”
“WHAT?” says all hands, Poundberry loudest of all.
“That's right,” said Darius. “She told the squire a long rigamarole
about what a martyr Ase was, and how her dad was going to do some thing
for him, but that she was going to give him his home back again with her
own money, money her father had given her to buy a ring with, she said,
though that ain't reasonable, of course--nobody'd pay that much for a
ring. The squire tried to tell her what a no-good Ase was, but she froze
him quicker'n--Where you going, Cap'n Benije?”
“I'm going down to that poorhouse,” hollers Poundberry. “I'll find out
the rights and wrongs of this thing mighty quick.”
We all said we'd go with him, and we went, six in one carryall. As we
hove in sight of the poorhouse a buggy drove away from it, going in
t'other direction.
“That looks like the Baptist minister's buggy,” says Darius. “What on
earth's he been down here for?”
Nobody could guess. As we run alongside the poorhouse door, Ase
Blueworthy stepped out, leading Debby Badger. She was as red as an
auction flag.
“By time, Ase Blueworthy!” hollers Cap'n Benijah, starting to get out
of the carryall, “what do you mean by--Debby, what are you holding that
rascal's hand for?”
But Ase cut him short. “Cap'n Poundberry,” says he, dignified as a boy
with a stiff neck, “I might pass over your remarks to me, but when you
address my wife--”
“Your WIFE?” hollers everybody--everybody but the cap'n; he only sort of
gurgled.
“My wife,” says Asaph. “When you men--church members, too, some of
you--sold the house over her head, I'm proud to say that I, having a
home once more, was able to step for'ard and ask her to share it with
me. We was married a few minutes ago,” he says.
“And, oh, Cap'n Poundberry!” cried Debby, looking as if this was the
most wonderful part of it--“oh, Cap'n Poundberry!” she says, “we've
known for a long time that some man--an uncommon kind of man--was coming
to offer me a home some day, but even Asaph didn't know 'twas himself;
did you, Asaph?”
We selectmen talked the thing over going home, but Cap'n Benijah didn't
speak till we was turning in at his gate. Then he fetched his knee a
thump with his fist, and says he, in the most disgusted tone ever I
heard:
“A house and lot for nothing,” he says, “a wife to do the work for him,
and five hundred dollars to spend! Sometimes the way this world's run
gives me moral indigestion.”
Which was tolerable radical for a Come-Outer to say, seems to me.