CHAP’S IRON HEEL.
When Chap entered Hyson Hall that afternoon, with his big valise, he
met the housekeeper at the door.
“How do you do, Susan?” he said, with his most radiant expression of
countenance.
Susan nodded as she looked, in surprise, at the valise.
“What have you got in that?” she asked.
“My dress suit,” said Chap, blandly; “or, at least, it mostly holds
the suit I dress in at night. I’ve come to stay with you for a while,
Susan,” he added, with as sweet a smile as he could call up.
“Stay awhile!” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” said Chap. “Poor Phil is so lonely! My folks were glad enough to
let me come.”
“I should think so,” cried Susan, getting very dark in the face; “and
do they suppose I’m going to cook and slave for two boys?”
“Oh, you needn’t slave at all, Susan!” said Chap, almost tenderly. “All
you have to do is to cook a little more than twice as much as you do
for Phil, and I’m content.”
“Did he ask you to come? That Philip?” said Susan.
“Oh, yes, indeed!” said Chap. “You don’t suppose that I’d go about
visiting houses, for a week at a time, without being asked? And now,
which is to be my room? I can carry my baggage up there myself.”
“You can sleep where you choose,” said Susan, “in the cellar, the
parlor, or the top of the house. This goes ahead of anything yet!”
And off she marched.
Phil was not in the house when Chap arrived; but when he came in, and
his visitor told him of his interview with the housekeeper, he laughed
heartily.
“Why, Chap,” he said, “you did begin mild, sure enough. I didn’t think
you could be as dulcet as that.”
“Oh, yes,” said Chap, “that is the way to do it. I pulled on my
heaviest woollen sock over my iron heel. But the heel is there, my
boy,--it’s there.”
“Not a very original simile,” remarked Phil.
“It’ll do for the country,” said Chap, “and a velvet glove is very
different from a woollen sock, if you happen to have cold feet.”
Chap easily gave up the expedition to the cedar swamp that day, as it
was agreed that the blacksnakes and the lonely sumach would probably
wait until proper possession of Old Bruden could be regained, and
the rest of the day was chiefly spent in laying out plans for future
operations.
Susan took no steps to prepare a sleeping apartment for the visitor,
but she gave the boys a very good supper, for, despite her anger, she
did not want Chap Webster to go home and tell his family that she did
not know how to keep house.
By Phil’s directions, however, Jenny prepared a room for Chap, and the
next morning operations were begun to put down all rebellion, actual or
expected.
Phil did not forget, however, that he had the business of the house and
farm to attend to, and to this he resolved each day to give the first
place. After breakfast, therefore, he informed Chap that he intended
to ride over to a neighbor’s farm to see about some oats which had
been bought before his uncle’s departure, but which had not yet been
delivered.
“You can come along, if you like,” said Phil. “Kit has been turned out
to grass, but I can have him caught.”
“That means you are going to ride Jouncer?” said Chap.
“Yes, I intend to ride him,” Phil replied.
“Good boy!” cried Chap. “You’ll kill two birds with one stone. You’ll
see about the oats, and you’ll have a chance to open fire on Joel, if
he shows symptoms of revolt. As for me, I don’t think I’ll go with you.
I’d rather stay home and see if I can’t get Old Bruden. I have your
lordship’s permission to do that, haven’t I? I couldn’t go ahead, you
know, without authority.”
“All right,” said Phil, “provided Susan delivers it up in a proper
manner. That is the point, you know,--she is to give it up. I don’t
want to get the gun in any underhanded way.”
“Exactly,” said Chap. “The laying down of the sword, or rather the
hanging up of the gun, is what we are aiming at. You need not be afraid
of me. I go in for high-handed--high-minded, I mean--warfare.”
Phil laughed, and, telling Chap to keep a sharp lookout on his own
defences, left him alone with his warlike ideas.
Joel had been pretty grum and cross when Philip returned from his ride
to town the day before, saying repeatedly that the horse had never
been used in that way since Mr. Berkeley bought him. Phil explained how
the thing had happened, but this did not make it appear in any better
light in Joel’s eyes. Phil left him currying the horse and growling
steadily.
Our young friend, therefore, was not surprised this morning when he
told Joel that he wanted to ride Jouncer over to the Trumbull Farm, to
see a dark cloud spread over that individual’s countenance.
“You don’t want to take that horse out again, do you?” he asked,
sharply.
“Yes,” said Philip, “I intend to take him out again. He ought to be
used, and I don’t propose to let him run away with me this time.”
“He’ll do it, if he’s a mind to,” said Joel.
“No, he won’t,” replied Phil. “I know him better now, and I won’t
let him get a start on me, as he did yesterday. Uncle left especial
directions that I was to take good care of Jouncer, and one way to take
care of him is to ride him and not let him get fat and lazy.”
“No danger of his gettin’ fat,” said Joel, “with your style of ridin’.”
“Joel,” said Phil, his face flushing a little, “I don’t want to talk
any more about this. I am going to ride Jouncer this morning, and if
you don’t choose to saddle him I’ll do it myself.”
“Oh, you’re master,” said Joel, “and if you say so the thing has got
to be done, I s’pose; and if the horse is rode to death, that’s your
lookout; but I guess I’m responsible for the saddlin’ and bridlin’ and
feedin’, ain’t I?”
“Certainly,” said Phil.
“Then I’ll attend to them things myself,” remarked Joel, as he went
into the stable.
As Philip rode away on Jouncer, he could not make up his mind about
Joel. It was true, he had done what he was told to do this time, but
whether or not he would continue to obey was a matter of doubt.
But, having been successful in his first skirmish, Philip concluded to
be satisfied for the present. Joel was not much of a person, after all.
“Susan,” said Chap, about fifteen minutes after Philip had ridden away,
“Phil said I might have Old Bruden while he was gone. I’ve been up to
the gun-room, but it isn’t there. Do you know where it is?”
“Didn’t he tell you where it was?” asked Susan, turning around and
facing him squarely.
“I know that he _hoped_ it was on its pegs,” said Chap.
“Hoped!” exclaimed Susan, derisively. “He may as well give up hoping,
as far as that gun is concerned. He knows, and you know, too, that I’ve
got it, and I intend to keep it.”
“Susan,” said Chap, a gentle smile spreading over his face like honey
over a buckwheat cake, “don’t you think you have kept up this little
joke about long enough?”
“Little joke!” repeated Susan, her eyes flashing as she spoke. “That
boy will find out before I am done that there is no joke about it; and
I’ll have his elders know, too, that I haven’t been in this family for
fourteen years to be ruled over now by a boy.”
“Phil has been in the family longer than that,” said Chap; “he is
fifteen.”
“Stuff!” said Susan, not seeing any point in this remark. “If Mr.
Berkeley had had time to think about things before he went away, he’d
’a’ left me in charge of the house. I know he intended me to have
charge of it, and he ought to have said so.”
“But, Susan,” said Chap, “all that hasn’t anything to do with the gun.
You surely haven’t any use for that.”
“I’ve a particular use for it,” said Susan.
And off she walked, as she was in the habit of doing when she had said
what she had to say, no matter whether the person she was talking to
had finished or not.
“I must pull off the woollen sock,” said Chap to himself. “Soft
stepping won’t do with her.”
A short time after this he went down into the back-yard, where Susan
was sitting under a tree, stringing beans.
“Susan,” said he, sitting down on the grass not far from her, “do you
know Mary Gurley? She’s a good cook, isn’t she?”
“She can cook,” said Susan. “All decent women can cook.”
“I mean,” said Chap, “can she make good pies and ginger-snaps and
roly-poly puddings, and all that sort of thing?”
“You mean, can she cook for a boy,” said Susan. “Do you want her? I
expect she can cook well enough for you.”
“Then she is a mighty good cook,” said Chap. “And do you think she
could run a small girl like Jenny?”
“What do you mean?” asked Susan, putting down her beans and looking
steadfastly at Chap.
“I mean,” said Chap, in his blandest tones, “that in a day or two Phil
is likely to need a new cook and housekeeper, and I think he’ll want
one rather given to pies. I’ve heard a good deal about Mary Gurley, and
I thought I’d like your opinion of her before I recommend her to Phil.”
“You impudent, outrageous boy!” cried Susan, starting to her feet and
letting her pan and beans fall together to the ground. “Do you mean
that Philip Berkeley is thinking of discharging me and getting some
one in my place?”
“Oh, yes, Susan,” said Chap, cheerfully. “Phil has been made master of
this house, and if you don’t obey him he’ll have to bounce you. You can
see that for yourself.”
“Well, just tell him this,” said the angry housekeeper, “if you’re to
be his messenger, that when he pays me the two years’ wages that’s due
me he can talk about discharging me, and not before.”
“Oh, of course,” said Chap, as he sauntered away, “he’ll square up
before he tells you to march.”
“I got a good point on her,” said Chap, while giving an account of his
morning’s work to Phil, “when she admitted that in one way she could
be discharged. But she threw up pretty heavy earthworks when she told
about that two years’ wages. It must amount to a lot of cash. I wonder
how it came to run on so long?”
Phil was furious when he heard what Susan had said. He paid no
attention to Chap’s remarks, but marched into the dining-room, where
the housekeeper was getting the table ready for dinner.
“Susan,” he said, “if you don’t put that gun back into its place, and
obey me in other things, just as you would my uncle, I’ll make you
leave this house, and I’ll go in town and get the money from Mr.
Welford to pay you everything that is owing to you.”
Susan was too enraged to answer. She merely sniffed, stiffened her
back, and went on with her work.
“Do you feel refreshed?” said Chap, when Phil returned to the porch. “I
heard what you said, but don’t you think it was something like a breach
of contract?”
“Can’t help it,” said Phil. “She’s got to knock under or go.”
“Now, look here,” said his friend. “You’ve bared your blade, and that’s
all right; but just hold your heavy hand for a while, and let me hurl
another javelin. You’ll do that, won’t you?”
“All right,” said Phil. “I’ll wait a couple of days.”
“Phil,” said Chap, that evening, after supper, “will you lend me one of
these canes in the rack?”
“They are all uncle’s canes,” said Phil, who was reading by the lamp
which stood on the hall-table; “but he’d lend you one, of course. What
are you going to do with it?”
“Oh, I’m just going to take a little walk,” said Chap, selecting the
heaviest and knottiest stick in the rack. “I’m tired of the kind of
strategic warfare I’ve been carrying on to-day, and I’d like to change
to something straight out and simple. Perhaps the man with the black
straw hat may be coming to-night on one of his nocturnal prowls; and if
he does, I’d like to meet him by moonlight alone.”
“You needn’t expect him,” said Phil, laughing. “Everybody knows now
that uncle isn’t at home.”
It so happened that the man with the black straw hat was walking that
evening towards Hyson Hall.
He had seen the notice at the post-office, had gone to Mr. McNeal’s
store, and had recovered his hat. He had asked who brought it there,
and when told it was Phil he made up his mind that perhaps that boy was
old enough to talk to; and, as no one knew when Mr. Berkeley would be
at home, he might as well go and have a little conversation with his
nephew.
[Illustration]