JOBE SLEEPS IN THE SPARE BED. THE DREAM.
THAT nite arter I had got into bed and kivered up my head, I went to
sleep and waked not until broad daylite. Imagine my surprise, when I
waked, to find that durin all that long nite I had been the sole okepant
of that bed. The piller on which Jobe, my dear husband, had slept for
over thirty-four years had not been teched that nite, and, for the fust
time in thirty-five years next corn-huskin, Betsy Gaskins had slept
alone. I felt skeert. I felt as though some awful calamity had or would
occur to me.
With a heavy heart I ariz and put on my skirts, all the time feelin as
if I was about to choke. Everything was silent and still about the
house. Could it be possible that my dear Jobe had dide or been
kidnapped, or what? I hurried into the room—no Jobe there. I went into
the kitchen—no Jobe there. I hastened to the spare bed-room. The door
was closed. I stopped. I rubbed my hands together, studyin what to do,
all a trimblin. Certainly the dead and lifeless corpse of my dear
husband was in there cold in death, drivin to it of course by the cruel
words of his lovin wife. There I stood stock still, not knowin what to
do. I must have stood there some three or four minits until I came to
myself. All at onct I says, says I, out loud: “Betsy Gaskins, what are
you about? Haint you allers been looked upon as a woman of good
jedgement and feerless in the face of disaster?” At that I marched up to
the door and flung it open.
[Illustration: “I waked not until broad daylite.”]
Now what do you suppose I found? Jobe was not there, but that spare bed
had been okepied that very nite. Then it was that I realized that the
two old parties, as it were, had been divided—divided for one nite on
the money question. Yes, Jobe Gaskins and his wife Betsy, a Dimicrat and
Republican, had slept beneath the same roof and in seperate beds.
While I stood there, contemplatin what next to do and where Jobe might
be, I heered him come onto the back porch. I met him with a smile as he
come into the kitchen.
Says I: “Why, Jobe, where have you been?”
“Feedin—feedin, of course,” says he; “where do you suppose Ive been?”
lookin at the floor and walkin apast me.
Arter reflection thinks I, “’Tis best to say nothin to him about the
split in the two old parties until a future date.” So I jist went about
it and prepared the mornin meal, thinkin all the time of a dream I had
that nite, some time between bed-time and daylite, while I lay there all
alone, while the pardner of my life okepied the spare bed.
[Illustration: “FEEDIN,—FEEDIN, OF COURSE,” SAYS HE.]
Well, while Jobe was partakin of his mornin repast, I saw all the time
that he wanted to say something. I never said a word durin the whole
meal, neither did Jobe. We jist set and eat—eat in silence.
[Illustration: “‘Do you promis?’ says I, girlish like.”]
When Jobe was done he pushed back and tipped his cheer agin the wall. I
knode he was a goin to speak. He cleared his throat like, and says, says
he:
“Betsy, I dont want you to say any more to me about what you read in the
newspapers. I am willin to listen to anything else under the sun, but
dont let me hear any more about them Populist ideas. I want to talk
sense to you, and you to talk sense to me. Now what I want to know,
Betsy, is, how are we to raise the money to pay the interest by the fust
of Aprile?”
Says I: “Land a goodness, Jobe, how do I know? Goodness knows I am
willin to do all I kin to help you raise it. I had a dream last nite; if
that dream was true I might tell you how to raise it.”
I stopped.
“Well,” says he, arter studyin a minit, “what was your dream?”
Lookin at him kind a girlish like, says I:
“Jobe, I wont tell you what it was unless you make me two promises.”
Jobe actually smiled. Says he:
“Go ahead; what are your promises?”
[Illustration: “I sot down, ... lookin him square in the face.”]
“Well,” says I, smilin, “the fust promis is that you sleep in the same
bed I do to-nite.”
At that I laffed out loud. Jobe he did, too. Then says I:
“The second promis is that you will listen without commentin until I
tell it all.”
Jobe he studied.
“Do you promis?” says I, girlish like.
“Yes, I promis,” says he; “go ahead.”
“You promis to sleep in the same bed you have for these nigh onto
thirty-five years?”
“Yes, yes,” says he, lookin half guilty.
“And you will listen?” says I.
“Yes, yes, Ile listen,” says he.
So, arter clearin away the dishes and scrapin off the crumbs for the
chickens, and puttin some dish water to bile, I sot down on the other
side of the table from Jobe, lookin him square in the face. Says I:
“Well, Jobe, we was talkin of the mortgage and the interest last nite
when I went to bed, and I suppose that had something to do with me havin
the dream, and for that reason I dont suppose there is anything in the
dream.”
“Spose not,” says he, lookin oneasy like.
[Illustration: Bill Bowers.]
“Well, Jobe,” says I, “I dreamed that Congressman Richer had demanded
his money, and you had to raise the whole amount of the mortgage or lose
our home. I thought you and me went down to town and went to every bank
to try to borrow the money with which to pay the mortgage. I thought
every place we went we was told that they was not makin any loans now,
that there was a money panic and they had decided not to make any more
loans for some time. I thought we could see great piles of money inside
the wire fence that seperated us from the bankers, you know.” At this he
nodded. “And I thought you said, jist as plain as I ever heard you say
anything:
“‘Why, haint you got plenty of money?’
“‘Yes, yes, we have plenty of money, but we are not loaning any at this
time,’[A] says each banker, jist as though they had all agreed to say
the same thing.
-----
Footnote A:
In July and August, 1893, during one of the severest money panics ever
experienced in the United States, many of the banks not only refused
to lend money on choice security or to discount commercial paper, but
in many instances would not permit persons to draw out the money they
had deposited with them. Business was paralyzed. Thousands of persons
were ruined, losing the accumulations of a lifetime by being unable to
raise money as usual to meet obligations falling due. Factories were
closed for lack of funds to pay employes, and thousands of American
citizens were thrown out of employment. The consequent suffering among
the poorer classes throughout the nation was indescribable. And during
all this time the banks of the country held the money of the people
and refused to pay it out even to those to whom it belonged. Hence the
question: Can not a better system of financiering be devised than our
present banking system? Would it not be better to permit the people to
deposit their money with our county treasurers?
-----
“So I thought we traveled and traveled and coaxed and coaxed, and we
couldent git a cent, as it were.
“Finally I thought we was agoin along the street, both feelin sad and
discouraged, when jist in front of Spring Bros. & Holsworth’s big dry
goods store who should we meet but Bill Bowers of Sandyville.
“‘Hello, Gaskins,’ says he.
“That was the fust we had seen of him. Our minds was so troubled.
“We stopped, and arter inquirin about the folks, and the stock, and the
meetin that is goin on at Center Valley school-house, he asked:
“‘What are you doin in town?’
“And I thought you up and told him about havin to pay the mortgage; and
of our havin been to every bank; and of our havin been told the same
tale by each banker, and then you said, ‘I guess, Bill, we will have to
lose our farm.’
“When he up and says, says he:
“‘Why, Gaskins, haint you heerd it?’
“‘Heerd what?’ says you.
“‘Why, haint you heerd of the new law?’ says he. ‘Why, Congress passed
the law yisterday. I was jist over to the court-house and they showed me
the telegram.’
“‘Why, what law do you mean, Bill?’ says you.
“Then you and Bill sot down on a box and I leaned agin the house, and
says Bill:
“‘Why, yisterday, Jobe, they passed a law in Congress authorizing the
Secretary of the Treasury to, at once, have engraved and printed full
legal-tender paper money to the amount of ten dollars per capita of the
population of the United States, and that money is to be set apart only
to be loaned to counties on county bonds, and the counties are to git it
at one per cent. interest. Then the county treasurers are to lend the
money only on first mortgage real estate security to the farmers and
business men and mechanics, at only two per cent. interest, and when the
man that borrows it pays it back, or any part of it, the amount of his
payments shall be credited on his mortgage, and as fast as it
accumulates in the county treasurer’s office he shall forward it to
Washington and git it credited on the county bond they hold. The one per
cent. the government gits is to pay for makin the money and keepin the
books at Washington. The other one per cent. that the borrowers pay is
to go toward payin the county treasurer’s salary and clerk hire. This
money, Jobe, is as good as gold, because the government agrees to take
it for postage stamps and internal revenue and duties on imports and
sich. All you have to do, Jobe, is to go over there to that grand old
court-house, give your mortgage to the people of the county, and git
your money; and after this you will only have to pay two per cent.
interest instead of six or seven, and you kin save your farm.’
“Well, Jobe, I thought you and me and Bill Bowers all went over there,
and sure enough, what Bill told us was true. The county treasurer told
us that he would put our application on file, and as soon as they could
git the money out and here, possibly in thirty days, we could come in
and git ninety per cent. of the value of our farm if we needed that
much.
“And while we was standin there a talkin to Treasurer Hochstetter, I
heard George Welty explainin to Ed. Walters ‘how nice it was for a
person to be able to give a mortgage to the people of the county for
money to pay for a home, and then the county goin that person’s security
and gittin the money from all the people of the United States,’ and
explainin that there would always be jist enough money to do bizness on
and no more, since the county would only borrow from the government when
some citizen of the county had use for the money and was willin to give
good security and pay two per cent. for it. And, Jobe, I thought you
looked happier than you have for ten years.”
“Well, Bet——”
“Hold on, Jobe,” says I. “Well, I thought you and me and Bill Bowers
started up street, and when we were passin Jones’s bank he called us in.
“Says he: ‘Mr. Gaskins, I guess we can accommodate you with that little
matter you was speakin about this morn——”
“‘I dont want it now,’ says you.
“‘No,’ says I.
“‘Ide think not,’ says Bill Bowers.
“‘Well, but hold—hold on,’ says Jones. ‘I—I—we—we will let you have that
amount at four per cent.’
“‘Oh, no,’ says you.
“‘Well, how will three strike you?’ says Jones.
“‘I dont want it at all,’ says you.
“‘Come on,’ says I, and we went on up street. When we passed the First
National Bank, out comes one of the clerks a hollerin, ‘Mr. Gaskins! Mr.
Gaskins!’ We stopped. He came a runnin up and says: ‘Come in now and our
people will accommodate you,’ takin hold of your arm and startin back
with you. I thought I jist took a hold of your other arm and says, says
I: ‘Jobe Gaskins, where yer goin? We dont want any bank money in sich a
panic as this. So come on and lets git out of this panic.’
“Well, every last bank we had been to that mornin was a peckin, and a
hollerin, and a beckenin to us that evenin, until we like to a never got
out of town and away from them. They jist seemed bound to lend you that
money whether you wanted it or not. Something had created a panic among
them—a panic to git to lend you money. Maybe they had heard of the new
law. I dont know.”
Durin most of the tellin of my dream Jobe he was leanin his face in his
hands, his elbows on the table, eyes wide open, listenin as he never did
before.
When I finished, says he:
“Betsy, that will save us. What a grand country this is!” And he got up
and walked across the floor. Comin back and lookin, anxious like, at me,
says he: “Betsy, which party did Bill say passed that law—the Dimicrats
or the Republicans? It is grand! grand! It will save us.” As he spoke he
looked full of joy and happiness. Answerin, says I:
“I think I heard John Denison say it was the Popul——”
I never got to finish that word. His fist came down on the table like a
thousand of bricks. He jumped back into the middle of the floor, cracked
his fists together, stamped his foot, and says in a loud voice: “I wont!
I wont! I wont do it. It can go fust. Bill Bowers is a dum fool. I wont!
I wont!”
Says I: “Why, Jobe, what on airth is the matter? What ails you? What yer
talkin about anyhow? You wont do what?”
Answerin, says he, bringin his fists together agin:
“I wont borrow any money from any scheme them tarnal Populists has made
into a law. Ile—Ile pay ten per cent. interest fust. Ile not lend my
approval to any law they have made.”
“Why, sakes alive, Jobe,” says I, “they haint made any law. That was
jist a dream I had. What ails you, anyhow?”
At that he stepped back a step or two, lookin at me vicious like. Movin
his head up and down in short jerks, says he:
“Betsy, you must stop it. Stop it at once. Its got you crazy—so crazy
you are dreamin about it. You must stop that readin or Ile have you sent
to a lunatic asylum.”
He went out at the door then, but just as he got out, in time for him to
hear it, I hollered:
“Its you and your likes that ort to be sent to a lunatic asylum for not
seein a thing that you have to turn your back on to keep from seein.”
This ended the second “discussion of the financial situation,” as they
say down at Washington. The two old parties—Jobe and me—are still
divided; but I have one promis he has yet to fulfill.
[Illustration]