BILL BOWERS IS ON THE FENCE.
JOBE is able to be up. We have been foreclosed, and ex-Congressman
Richer has the farm back.
We have a notice in writin to vacate these premises on or before the
first day of March.
Jobe bein sick, neither of us was to town the day our old home was sold
by the sheriff.
I felt bad all that day—felt jist like somethin awful was about to
happen. Jobe seemed weaker and more restless than usual.
Bill Bowers rode by our place in the evenin, stopped at the gate and
hollered.
I went to the door, hopin agin hope that maybe for some unknown reason
the foreclosin hadent been done. But as soon as I laid eyes on Bill I
knode our home was gone.
He hemmed and hawed and stammered, tryin to say somethin that was hard
for him to say. Says I:
“Out with it, Bill; we are prepared for the wust.”
“Well, Betsy,” says he, “its gone. Congressman Richer bought it in, at
jist what the mortgage and interest amounted to, and you people will
have to pay the costs. Mr. Richer seemed pleased to get the old farm
back agin.”
[Illustration: “‘Out with it, Bill; we are prepared for the wust.’”]
“Yes, Bill,” says I. “I allow he was glad to git it back. He ort to be.
He has some $3,800 of interest and principal we have paid him on the
farm, before he forced us to borrow the money from Banker Vinting to pay
him last spring. You see, Bill, we paid him $3,800 interest and
principal up to last Aprile; then last Aprile we paid him $1,800 that we
borrowed from the banker, and some $300 of Jobe’s legicy money from his
dead aunt, makin in all some $5,900. Now he takes $1,863 of that money
and buys it back, givin him the same farm we got from him and $4,000
nearly of money besides that Jobe has airned by hard knocks.”
“Well, Betsy,” says Bill, “it does look kind a tough.”
“Yes,” says I, “and it dont look any tougher than it is.”
“I spose not,” says Bill.
“No, Bill,” says I; “if the lawmakers only knew how hard it is to be
sold out and turned out of your home, they would surely make laws to
make money plentier and easier to git; they would surely reduce
interest.”
“They ort to,” says Bill.
“Yes, Bill,” says I, “we have done all we could to hold the farm, and
hoped to have a home to stay in in our old age.
“We have give all we raised to Congressman Richer in payments and
interest and taxes and sich.
“We have done without many a thing we ort to a had tryin to keep our
payments up, hopin that our old age might be spent here among our
neighbors; but every year since we bought the farm times have got
harder, prices lower and money scarcer.
“We have raised good crops, Jobe has worked hard, and now, arter all the
years of hard work and good crops, we have $512 less than we had when we
bought the farm seventeen years ago.
“They kept a tellin Jobe that it was ‘better to have less money and
lower prices than to have more money and higher prices,’ and Jobe and
his likes have kept a votin for the fellers that told him sich until
to-day he is sick and sold out.
“He has done the votin and the other fellers has got the money. They
held the bag, and Jobe and his likes poured in the grain.”
“Well, Betsy,” says Bill, studyin like, “Ive about made up my mind that
none of us farmers have much to show for our past votin. It looks as
though, while we have been workin hard nite and day, economizin and
savin; while we have been a tryin to lay up somethin for ourselves in
old age, and for our children; while we have been doin all this, and
doin the votin, there has been a lot of schemers and rascals seekin
office and gittin laws made to redeem one kind of money in another, and
then cornerin the redeemin kind, and contractin and destroyin this kind
and that, even issuin bonds on us to git it to burn, and doin everything
so they would be able to take from us what we were a raisin and savin.”
[Illustration: “‘Ile tell you, Betsy. Ive made up my mind to try them
Populists hereafter.’”]
Then, leanin over on his horse, says he:
“Betsy, step up closer to the fence.”
I walked out to the fence.
Says he, whisperin like:
“Ile tell you, Betsy. Ive made up my mind to try them Populists
hereafter. I see they have some purty smart men in the United States
Senate. But for the life of you, Betsy, dont say anything to any one
about my changin.”
I jist stepped back a step or two and looked at Bill Bowers for a whole
minit. He looked at me. Then says I:
“Bill Bowers, I am surprised! I am surprised that you, a full-blooded
American citizen, a grown-up man, a man who has made up his mind to do
what he believes to be right, and then hasent the manhood to let the
world know that you are independent, but are afraid that some
officeseeker or polertician who lives off of you will turn up his nose
at you! Bill Bowers, I thought you had more firmness in you than that.
If the party you have been votin for has betrayed you, if the
officeseekers you have helped to elect have used you as a tool, haint it
your dooty as a man and a citizen to let it be known that you are a goin
to quit the gang? Instid of bein afraid of them, you should make them
afraid of you. Thats your dooty, Bill.”
“Well, Betsy,” says he, “I dont know but what youre right, but Ide
ruther you wouldent say anything about it.”
Then, changin the subject, says he:
“Betsy, where do you think of goin to?”
“Where do I think of goin to?” says I. “The Lord only knows. I dont.”
At that Jobe hollered for me, and, biddin Bill “good day,” I come in.
Yourn, nearin the close.