But locatin’ him wa’n’t such an easy matter. All we knew was he lived
somewheres in Wampaquoit, and Wampaquoit is ten miles from nowhere, in
the woods up around Cohasset Narrows. I got off the train at the Narrows
depot, and, after considerable cruisin’ and bargainin’, I hired a horse
and buggy, and started to drive over. I lost my way and got onto a wood
road. Don’t ask me about that road. I don’t want to talk about it. I’d
been on salt water for a good many years, and I’d seen some rough goin’,
but rockin’ and bouncin’ over that wood road come nigher to makin’ me
seasick than any of my Grand Banks trips. Narrow! And grown over! My
land! I had to stoop to keep from bein’ scraped off the seat; and,
whenever I’d straighten up to ease my back, a pine branch would fetch me
a slap in the face that you could hear half a mile.
As for my language, you could hear that _two_ miles. That road ruined my
moral reputation, I’m afraid. They had a revival meetin’ in the Narrows
meetin’-house the follerin’ week, but whether ’twas on my account or not
I don’t know.
However, I made port after a spell—that is, I run afoul of a house and
lot in a clearin’ sort of; and I asked a black-lookin’ male critter, who
was asleep under a tree, how to get to Wampaquoit. He riz upon one
elbow, brushed the mosquitoes away from his mouth, and made answer that
’twas Wampaquoit I was in.
"But the town?" says I. "Where’s the town?"
Well, it appeared that this was the town, or part of it. The rest was
scattered along through the next three or four miles of wilderness.
Where was the center? Oh, there wa’n’t any. There was a schoolhouse and
a meetin’-house, and a blacksmith’s, and such, on the main road up a
piece, that was all.
"But where do the Injuns live?" I wanted to know. "The knittin’ women,
the Lamp Mat Trust—where does it—she—they, I mean, live?"
He couldn’t seem to make much out of this; and by and by he went into
the house and fetched out his wife. She was about as black as he was;
and I cal’lated they was a Portygee family; but, no, lo and behold you,
it turned out they was Injuns themselves! But they never heard of
anybody named Rose, nor of anybody that knit centerpieces, nor of an
"antique," nor anything. I give it up pretty soon, for my temper was
beginnin’ to heat up the surroundin’ air, and the mosquitoes seemed to
think I was "Old Home Week," and come for miles around and brought their
relations. I give up and drove away over a fairly decent road this time,
till I found another house. But this was just the same; Injuns in
plenty—’most everybody was part Injun—but nobody had heard of our
special Mohican nor of an "antique." And, which was queerer still, they
never heard of anybody around that done knittin’ or crochetin’ or lace
makin’, or had sold any, if they did do it. And they didn’t any of ’em
talk story-book Injun dialect, same as Uncas did. They used pretty fair
United States.
Well, to bile this yarn of mine down, I rode through those woods and
around the settlement most of that afternoon. Then I was ready to give
up, and so was my old livery-stable horse. He’d gone dead lame, and
’twould have been a sin and a shame to make him walk a step farther. I
took him to the blacksmith’s shop, and left him there. I pounded
mosquitoes, and asked the blacksmith some questions, and he pounded iron
and wanted to ask me a million; but neither of us got a heap of
satisfaction out of the duet.
Two things seemed to be sure and sartin. One was that Solomon Uncas
Rose, the "child of the forest" and chief of the tattin’ tribe, was
mistook when he give Wampaquoit as his home town; and t’other that, much
as I wanted to, I couldn’t get out of that town until evenin’. My horse
wa’n’t fit to travel, and I couldn’t hire another, not until after the
blacksmith had had his supper. Then he’d hitch up and drive me back to
the Narrows.
But luck was with me for once. Up the road came bumpin’ a nice-lookin’
mare and runabout wagon, with a pleasant-faced, gray-haired man on the
seat. The mare pulled up at the blacksmith’s house, and the man got down
and went inside.
"Who’s that?" says I. "And what’s he done to be sentenced to this
place?"
"Doctor," says the blacksmith, with a grunt—he was one-quarter Injun,
too. "Comes from West Ostable. My wife’s sick."
"I sympathize with her," says I. "I’m sick, too—homesick. Maybe this
doctor’ll help me out. What I need is a change of scene; and I need it
bad."
So, when the doctor come out of the house, I hailed him, and asked him
if he’d do a kindness to a shipwrecked mariner stranded on a lee shore.
"Why, what’s the matter?" says he, laughin’.
"Matter enough," I told him. "I want to go home. Besides, a merciful man
is merciful to the beasts; and if I stay here much longer these
mosquitoes’ll die of rush of my blood to their heads. I understand you
come from West Ostable, Doctor; but if ’twas Jericho ’twould be all the
same. I want you to let me ride there with you. And you can charge
anything you want to."
That doctor was a fine feller. He laughed some more, and told me to jump
right in. Said he’d got to see one more patient on his way back; but, if
I didn’t mind that stop, he’d be glad of my company. So I told the
blacksmith to keep my horse and buggy overnight, and when I got to West
Ostable I’d telephone for the livery folks to send for ’em. Then I got
into the doctor’s runabout, and off we drove.
We did consider’ble talkin’ durin’ the drive; but 'twas all general, and
nothin’ definite on my part. 'Course, he was curious to know what I was
doin’ 'way over there; but I said I come on business, and let it go at
that. I was beginnin’ to have some suspicions, and I cal’lated not to be
laughed at if I could help it. So we drove and drove; and, by and by,
when I judged we must be pretty nigh to West Ostable, he turned the
horse into a side road, and brought him to anchor alongside of an old
ramshackle house, with a tumble-down barn and out-buildin’s astern of
it.
"Now, Cap’n," he says, "I’ll have to ask you to wait a few minutes while
I see that last patient of mine. ’Twon’t take long."
"Patient?" says I. "Good land! Does anybody _live_ in this fag end of
nothin’ness?"
"Yes," says he. "’Twas empty for years, but now a couple of fellers live
here all by themselves. Foreigners of some kind they are. Been here for
a month or more. One of ’em let a packin’ case fall on his foot, and—"
"I sympathize with him," says I. "The same thing happened to me a spell
ago. But a packin’ case! Cranberry crate, you mean, I guess."
"Maybe so," he says. "I didn’t ask. But 'twas somethin’ heavy, anyhow.
Nobody seems to know much about these chaps or what they do. Well, be as
comfort’ble as you can. I’ll be back soon."
He took his medicine satchel and went into the house. Soon’s he was out
of sight, I climbed out of the buggy and started explorin’. I was
curious.
I wandered around back of the house. Such a slapjack place you never see
in your life! Windows plugged with papers and old rags, shingles off the
roof, chimneys shy of bricks—’twas a miracle it didn’t blow down long
ago. Whoever the tenants was, they was only temporary, I judged, and
willin’ to take chances.
From somewheres out in the barn I heard a scratchin’ kind of noise, and
I headed for there. The big door was open a little ways, and I squeezed
through. ’Twas pretty dark, and I couldn’t see much for a minute; but
soon as my eyes got used to the gloominess, I saw lots of things. That
barn was half filled with boxes and crates, some empty and some not.
There was a horse in the stall—an old white horse—and standin’ in the
middle of the floor was a wagon heaped with things, and covered with a
piece of tarpaulin. I lifted the tarpaulin. Underneath it was a spinnin’
wheel, an old-fashioned table, two chairs, and a basket. There was
embroidery and fancywork in the basket.
Then I took a few soundin’s among the full boxes and crates standin’
round. I didn’t do much of this, ’cause the scratchin’ noise kept up in
a room at the back of the barn, and I wa’n’t anxious to disturb the
scratcher, whoever he was. But I saw a plenty. There was enough bran-new
"antiques" and "genuine" Injun knittin’ work in them crates and boxes to
stock the "Colonial Exchange" for six weeks, even with better trade than
we’d had.
I’d seen all I wanted to in _that_ room, so I tiptoed into the other. A
feller was in there, standin’ back to me, and hard at work. He was
sandpaperin’ the polish off a mahogany sewin’ table; the kind Mrs. Burke
Smythe called a "find," and had in her best front parlor as an example
of what our great-granddads used to make, and we wa’n’t capable of in
these cheap and shoddy days. There was another "find" on the floor side
of him, a chair layin’ on its side. Pasted on the under side of the seat
was a paper label with "Grand Rivers Furniture Manufacturing Company"
printed on it. I judged that the hand of Time hadn’t got to work on that
chair yet, but it would as soon as it had antiqued the table.
I watched the mellowin’ influence gettin’ in its licks—much as twenty
year passed over that table in the three minutes I stood there—and then
I spoke.
"Hello, shipmate!" says I. "You’re busy, ain’t you?"
He jumped as if I’d stuck a sail needle in him, the table tipped over
with a bang, and he swung around and faced me. And I’m blessed if he
wa’n’t that Armenian critter; the one that the clerk had talked to—the
"last survivor of the peddlin’ crew."
I was expectin’ ’most anything to happen, and I was kind of hopin’ it
would. My fists sort of shut of themselves. But it didn’t happen. I knew
the feller; but, as luck would have it, he didn’t recognize me. He
swallered hard a couple of times, and then he says, pretty average ugly:
"Vat d’ye want?"
"Oh, nothin’," says I. "I just drove over with the doctor, and I cruised
’round the premises a little, that’s all. You must do a good business
here. Make this stuff yourself?"
"No," he snapped.
I could see that he was dyin’ to chuck me out, and didn’t dast to. I
picked up the chair and looked at it.
"Humph!" I says. "Grand Rivers Company, hey? Buy of them, do you?"
"Yes," says he.
"And this?" I took a centerpiece out of one of the boxes. "This come
from Grand Rivers, too?"
"No," says he. "Boston. Is dere anything else you vant to know?"
"Guess not. You the sick man?"
"No; mine brudder."
"Your brother, hey? Let’s see. I wonder if I don’t know him. Kind of
tall and thin, ain’t he?"
He sniffed contemptuous.
"No," says he, "he’s short and fat."
"Beg your pardon," says I, "guess I was mistook. Well, I must be gettin’
back to the buggy; the doctor’s prob’ly waitin’ for me. Good day,
mister."
He never said good-by; but I saw him watchin’ me all the way to the
gate. I climbed into the buggy, and set there till he went back into the
barn; then I got down and hurried to the front of the house. The door
wa’n’t fastened, and I went in. I met the doctor in the hall. He was
some surprised to see me there.
"Hello, Doc!" says I. "Where’s your patient?"
"In there," says he, pointin’ to the door astern of him. "But—"
"How’s he gettin’ along?" I wanted to know.
"Why, he’s better," he says. "He’s practically all right. I wanted him
to get up and walk, but he wouldn’t."
"Wouldn’t, hey?" says I. "Humph! Well, maybe he wouldn’t walk for you;
but I’ll bet _I_ can make him _fly_."
Before he could stop me, I flung that door open and walked into that
room. The sufferer from fallin’ packin’ boxes was settin’ in one chair
with his foot in another. I drew off, and slapped him on the shoulder
hard as I could.
"Hello, Sol Uncas Mohicans!" I sung out. "How’s genuine antique lamp
mats these days?"
For about two seconds he just set there and looked at me, set and
glared, with his mouth open. Then he let out a scream like a scared
woman, jumped out of that chair, and made for the kitchen door, lame
foot and all. I headed him off, and he turned and set sail for the one
I’d come in at. He reached the front hall just ahead of me; but my boot
caught him at the top step and helped him _some_. He never stopped at
the gate, but went head-first into the woods whoopin’ anthems.
The sandpaperin’ chap came runnin’ out of the barn, and I took after
him; but he didn’t wait to see what I had to say. He dove for the woods
on his side. We had the premises to ourselves, and I went back and
picked up the doctor, who’d been upset by the "child of the forest" on
his way to the ancestral tall timber.
"What—what—what?" gasps the medical man. "For Heaven sakes! Why, he
wouldn’t _try_ to walk when I asked him to. _How_ did you do that?"
"Easy enough," says I. "’Twas an old-fashioned treatment, but it
helps—in some cases. Just layin’ on of hands, that’s all. Now, Doc,
afore you ask another question, let me ask you one. Ain’t that critter’s
name Rose?"
He was consider’ble shook, but he managed to grin a little.
"No," says he, "but you’ve guessed pretty near it."
Then he told me what the name was.
I rode back to West Ostable with that doctor and took the evenin’ train
home. Jim Henry was waitin’ for me on the store platform when I got out
of the depot wagon.
"Well?" he wanted to know. "Did you find him?"
"Humph!" says I. "I did find the lost tribes, a couple of members of
’em, anyway."
"What do you mean by that?" says he.
"Come somewheres where ’tain’t so public and I’ll tell you."
So we went back into the back room and I told him my yarn. He listened,
with his mouth open, gettin’ madder and madder all the time.
"Now," says I, endin’ up, "the way I look at it is this. I’ve been
thinkin’ it out on the cars and I cal’late we’ll have to do this way. We
ain’t crooks—that is, we didn’t mean to be—and now we know all our
’antiques’ are frauds and our ’Injun curios’ made up to Boston, we must
either shut up the ’Exchange’ or go back to home products. We’ll have to
keep mum about those we have sold, because most of ’em have been carted
out of town and we don’t know where to locate the buyers. But, for my
part, bein’ average honest and meanin’ to be square, I feel mighty bad.
What do you say?"
He said enough. He felt as bad as I did about stickin’ our customers,
but what seemed to cut him the most was that somebody had got ahead of
him in business.
"Think of it!" says he. "Skipper, we’re gold-bricked! Cheated! Faked!
Done! Think of it! If I could only get my hands on that—"
"Hold on a minute," says I. "Better think the whole of it while you’re
about it. We set out to drive those peddlers out of what was _their_
trade. If they was smart enough to turn the tables and make a good
profit out of sellin’ us the stuff, I don’t know as I blame ’em much. It
was just tit for tat—or so it seems to me now that I’ve cooled off."
"Maybe so," says he; "but it hurts my pride just the same. James Henry
Jacobs, doctor of sick businesses, beat by a couple of peddlers from
Armenia!"
"Hold on again," I says. "I ain’t told you their real name yet."
"Their name?" he says. "I know it already. It’s Rose."
"Not accordin’ to that West Ostable doctor, it ain’t. The name they give
_him_ was Rosenstein."
He looked at me for a spell without speakin’. Then he smiled, heaved a
long breath, and reached over and shook my hand.
"Whew!" says he. "Skipper, I feel better. Richard’s himself again. To be
beat in a business deal by Roses is one thing—but by Rosensteins is
another. You can’t beat the Rosensteins in business."
"Not in the secondhand and by-productin’ business you can’t," says I.
"Them lines belong to 'em. We hadn’t any right to butt in."
And we both laughed, good and hearty.
"But," says I, after a little, "what’ll we do with that curio room,
anyway? Give it up?"
"Not much!" says he, emphatic. "I guess we’ll have to give up the
antiques; but we’ve got the winter ahead of us, Skipper, and the Ostable
County embroidery crop flourishes best in cold weather. We’ll start the
old ladies knittin’ again and have a fairly good-sized stock when the
autos commence runnin’ once more. Give up the Colonial Pilgrim Mothers?
I should say not!"
"All right," I says, dubious. "You may be right, Jim; you generally are.
But I’m a little scary of this by-product game. It’ll get us into
serious trouble, I’m afraid, some day. It’s easier to steer one big
craft, than ’tis to maneuver a fleet of little ones."
He sniffed, scornful. "As I understand it, Cap’n Zeb," he says, "this
business of yours was in a pretty feeble condition when you called me in
to prescribe."
"No doubt of that, Jim, but—"
"Yes. And it’s a healthy, growin’ child now."
"Yes. It sartin is."
"Then, if I was you, I’d take my medicine and be thankful. Time enough
to complain when you commence to go into another decline. Ain’t that
so?"
I didn’t answer.
"Isn’t it so?" he asked again.
"Maybe," I said; "but it may be a fatal disease next time; and it’s
better to keep well than to be cured—and a lot cheaper."
He said I was a reg’lar bullfrog for croakin’, and hinted that I was in
the back row of the primer class so fur’s business instinct went. I had
a feelin’ that he was right, but I had another feelin’ that _I_ was
right, too. However, there was nothin’ to do but keep quiet and wait the
next development. Afore Christmas the development landed with both feet.
I’d heard the news twice already that mornin’. Fust at the Poquit House
breakfast table, where 'twas served along with the chopped hay cereal
and warmed over and picked to pieces, as you might say, all through the
b’iled eggs and spider-bread, plumb down to the doughnuts and imitation
coffee. Then I’d no sooner got outdoor than Solon Saunders sighted me,
and he ’bout ship and beat acrost the road like a porgie-boat bearin’
down on a school of fish. He was so excited that he couldn’t wait to get
alongside, but commenced heavin’ overboard his cargo of information
while he was in mid-channel.
"Did you hear about the Higgins Place bein’ rented, Cap’n Snow?" he sung
out. "It’s been took for next summer and—"
"Yes, yes, I heard it," says I. "Fine seasonable weather we’re havin’
these days. Don’t see any signs of snow yet, do you?"
If he’d been skipper of a pleasure boat with a picnic party aboard he
couldn’t have paid less attention to my weather signals.
"It’s been hired for an eatin’-house," he says, puffin’ and out of
breath. "A man by the name of Fred from Buffalo, has hired it, and—"
"Fred, hey?" I interrupted. "Humph! ’Cordin’ to the proclamations _I_
heard he cruises under the name of George—Eben George—and he hails from
Bangor."
"No, no!" he says, emphatic. "His name’s Edgar Fred and it’s Buffalo he
comes from. Henry Williams told me and he got it from his wife’s aunt,
Mrs. Debby Baker, and her cousin by marriage told her. She is a
Knowles—the cousin is—married one of the Denboro Knowleses—and _she_ got
it from Peleg Kendrick’s nephew whose stepmother is related to the woman
that used to do old Judge Higgins’s cookin’ when he was alive. So it
come straight, you see."
"Yes," I says, "about as straight as the eel went through the snarled
fish net. All right. I don’t care. How’s your rheumatiz gettin’ on,
Solon?"
I thought that would fetch him, but it didn’t. Gen’rally speakin’, he’d
talk for an hour about his rheumatiz and never skip an ache; but now he
was too much interested in the Higgins Place even to catalogue his
symptoms.
"It’s some better," he says, "since I tried the Electric Ointment out of
the newspaper. But, Cap’n Zeb, did you know that this Fred man was goin’
to start a swell dinin’-room for automobile folks? He is. He’s had all
kinds of experience in them lines. He’s goin’ to have foreign help and a
chief Frenchman to do the cookin’ and—and I don’t know what all."
"I guess that’s right," says I. "Well, I don’t know what all, either,
and I ain’t goin’ to worry. We’ll see what we shall see, as the blind
feller said. Hello! there’s the minister over there and I’ll bet he
ain’t heard a word about it."
That done the trick. Away he put, all sail set, to give the minister the
earache, and I went on down to the store. And there was Jacobs talkin’
to a man I’d never seen afore and both of ’em so interested they
scarcely noticed me when I come in.
He was a kind of ordinary-lookin’ feller at fust sight, the stranger
was, sort of a cross between a parson and a circus agent, judgin’ by his
get-up. Pretty thin, with black hair and a black beard, and dressed all
in black except his vest, which was thunder-storm plaid. I’d have
cal’lated he was in mournin’ if it hadn’t been for that vest. As ’twas
he looked like a hearse with a brass band aboard. Both him and Jacobs
was smokin’ cigars, the best ten-centers we carried in stock.
"Mornin’," says I, passin’ by ’em. Jim Henry looked up and saw me.
"Ah, Skipper," says he; "glad to see you. Come here. I want to make you
acquainted with Mr. Edwin Frank, who is intendin’ to locate here in
Ostable. Mr. Frank, shake hands with my partner, Cap’n Zebulon Snow."
We shook, the band wagon hearse and me, and I felt as if I was back
aboard the old _Fair Breeze_, handlin’ cold fish. Jim Henry went right
along explainin’ matters.
"Mr. Frank," he says, "has had a long experience in the restaurant and
hotel line and he believes there is an openin’ for a first-class
road-house in this town. He has leased the—"
Then I understood. "Why, yes, yes!" I interrupted. "I know now. You’re
Mr. Eben Edgar Fred George from Buffalo and Bangor, ain’t you?"
Then _they_ didn’t understand. When I explained about the boardin’-house
talk and Solon Saunders’ "straight" news, Jacobs laughed fit to kill and
even Mr. Fred George Frank pumped up a smile. But his pumps was out of
gear, or somethin’, for the smile looked more like a crack in an ice
chest than anything human. However, he said he was glad to see me and I
strained the truth enough to say I was glad to meet him.
"So you’ve hired the Higgins Place, Mr. Frank," I went on. "Well, well!
And you’re goin’ to make a hotel of it. If old Judge Higgins don’t turn
over in his grave at that, he’s fast moored, that’s all."
I meant what I said, almost. Judge Higgins, in his day, had been one of
the big-bugs of the town and his place on the hill was one of the best
on the main road. It set ’way back from the street and the view from
under the two big silver-leaf trees by the front door took in all
creation and part of Ostable Neck, as the sayin’ is. The Judge had been
dead most eight year now, and, bein’ a three times widower without chick
nor child, the estate was all tied up amongst the heirs of the three
wives and was fast tumblin’ to pieces. It couldn’t be sold, on account
of the row between the owners, but it had been let once or twice to
summer folks. To turn it into a tavern was pretty nigh the final
come-down, seemed to me.
But Jim Henry Jacobs wa’n’t worryin’ about come-downs. He never let dead
dignity interfere with live business. He didn’t shed a tear over the old
place, or lay a wreath on Judge Higgins’s tomb. No, sir! he got down to
the keelson of things in a jiffy.
"Skipper," he says, sweet and plausible as a dose of sugared
soothin’-syrup. "Skipper," he says, "Mr. Frank’s proposition is to open,
not a hotel exactly, but a first-class, up-to-date road-house and
restaurant. As progressive citizens of Ostable, as business men,
wide-awake to the town’s welfare, that ought to interest you and me, on
general principles, hadn’t it?"
I judged that this was only Genesis, and that Revelation would come
later, so I nodded and said I cal’lated that it had—on general
principles.
"You bet!" he goes on. "It does interest us. Speakin’ personally, I’ve
long felt that there was a place in Ostable for a dinin’-room, run to
bag—to attract, I mean—the wealthy, the well-to-do transient trade. Why,
just think of it!" he says, warmin’ up, "it’s winter now. By May or June
there’ll be a steady string of autos runnin’ along this road here, every
one of ’em solid full of city people and all hungry. Now, it’s a shame
to let those good things—I mean hungry gents and ladies, go by without
givin’ ’em what they want. If I hadn’t had so many things on my mind, if
the Ostable Store’s large and growin’ business hadn’t took my attention
exclusive, I should have ventured a flyer in that direction myself. But
never mind that; Mr. Frank here has got ahead of me and the job’s in
better hands. Mr. Frank is right up to the minute; he’s abreast of the
times and he—by the way, Mr. Frank, perhaps you wouldn’t mind tellin’ my
partner here somethin’ about your plans. Just give him the line of talk
you’ve been givin’ me, say."
Mr. Frank didn’t mind. He had the line over in a minute and if I’d been
cal’latin’ that he was a frosty specimen with the water in his
talk-b’iler froze, I got rid of the notion in a hurry. He smiled,
polite, and begun slow and deliberate, but pretty soon he was runnin’
twenty knots an hour. He told about his experience in the eatin’-house
line—he’d been everything from hotel manager to club steward—and about
how successful he’d been and how big the profits was, and what his
customers said about him, and so on. Afore a body had a chance to think
this over—or to digest it, long’s we’re talkin’ about eatin’—he was
under full steam through Ostable with the Higgins Place loaded to the
guards and beatin’ all entries two mile to the lap. He’d never seen a
better openin’; his experience backed his judgment in callin’ it the
ideal location and opportunity, and the like of that. He talked his
throat dry and wound up, husky but hurrahin’, with somethin’ like this:
"Cap’n Snow," he says, "you and Mr. Jacobs must understand that I know
what I’m talkin’ about. This enterprise of mine will be the very highest
class. French chef, French waiters, all the delicacies and game in
season. A country Delmonico’s, that’s the dope—ahem! I mean that is the
reputation this establishment of ours will have; yes."
I judged that the "dope" had slipped out unexpected and that the miscue
jarred him a little mite, for he colored up and wiped his forehead with
a red and yellow bordered handkerchief. I was jarred, too, but not by
that.
"Establishment of _ours_?" I says, slow. "You mean yours, of course."
He was goin’ to answer, but Jim Henry got ahead of him.
"Sure! of course, Skipper," he says. "That’s all right. There!" he went
on, gettin’ up and takin’ me by the arm. "Mr. Frank’s got to be trottin’
along and we mustn’t detain him. So long, Mr. Frank. My partner and I
will have some conversation and we’ll meet again. Drop in any time. Good
day."
I hadn’t noticed any signs of Frank’s impatience to trot along, but he
took the hint all right and got up to go. He said good-by and I was
turnin’ away, when I see Jim Henry wink at him when they thought I
wa’n’t lookin’. I was suspicious afore; that wink made me uneasy as a
spring pullet tied to the choppin’-block.