APPRAISING THE NEW TEACHER
The morning wood-mists were warm, sweet-scented; the wood-birds' song
of thanksgiving was glad with the essence of God-given life. But the
man astride the dejected and weary horse saw none of the beauties of
his surroundings, heard none of the harmony, experienced none of the
exhilaration of the life all about him, as he rode slowly down the
winding trail between the trees. He sat erect in his saddle, eyes
fixed straight before him. His face was strong and seamed with tiny
lines. The prominence of his features was accentuated by the
thinness of the face. Beady black eyes burned beneath the shadows of
heavy brows. A shock of iron-grey hair brushed his shoulders. In
one hand he held a leather-bound book, a long thumb fixed on the
printed page from which his attention had been momentarily diverted
by his survey of the woodland scene.
"Desolation!" he murmured, "desolation! the natural home of
ignorance."
At the sound of his voice the old horse stood still. "Thomas," cried
the rider sternly, "did I command you to halt?"
From his leather boot-leg he extracted a long wand of seasoned
hickory and brought it down on the bay flank with a cutting swish.
The hickory represented the symbol of progress to Mr. George G.
Johnston, the new teacher of Scotia school. Certain it was it had
the desired effect in this particular instance. The aged horse broke
into a jerky gallop which soon carried the rider out into more open
country.
Here farms, hemmed in by rude rail-fences, looked up from valley and
hillside. Occasionally a house of greater pretensions than its
fellows, and built of unplaned lumber, gleamed in the morning
sunlight in gay contrast to the dun-colored log ones. But the
eternal forest, the primitive offering of earth's first substance,
obtruded even here, and the rider's face set in a frown as he
surveyed the vista before him.
Descending into a valley he saw that the farm homes, which from the
height seemed closely set together, were really quite a distance from
each other. He reined up before a small frame house and,
dismounting, allowed his hungry horse to crop the grass, as he opened
the gate and made up the path. A shaggie collie bounded around the
corner of the building and down to meet him, bristles erect and all
the antagonism of a bush-dog for a stranger in its bearing. It was
followed by a big man and a boy.
"Here you, Joe, come back here and behave yourself," the master
thundered and the dog turned and slunk back along the path.
"Mornin', sir," greeted Cobin Keeler.
In one hand he carried a huge butcher-knife, in the other a long
whetstone. More big knives glittered in the leather belt about his
waist. "Jest sharpenin' my knives ag'in the hog-killin'," he
explained, noting the stranger's startled look.
The teacher advanced, his fears at rest. "My name is Johnston," he
said, "George G. Johnston. I was directed here, sir. You are Mr.
Keeler, are you not, one of the trustees of the school of which I am
to have charge?"
Keeler thrust out a huge hand. "That's me," he answered. "You're
jest in time fer breakfast. It's nigh ready. Come 'round back an'
wash up. Maurice, go put the teacher's horse in the stable an' give
him a feed."
The teacher followed his host, gingerly rubbing the knuckles which
had been left blue by the farmer's strong grip.
The boy, who had been studying the man before him, turned away to
execute his father's order. If he knew anything about teachers--and
he did--he and the other lads of the community were in for a high old
time, he told himself. He went down to the gate, the dog trotting at
his heels.
"Joe," he commanded, "go back home," and the collie lay down on the
path, head between his forepaws.
The boy went out through the gate and approached the feeding horse
cautiously. His quick eyes appraised its lean sides and noted the
long welt made by the hickory on the clearly outlined ribs beneath
the bay hide.
"Poor ol' beggar," he said gently.
At the sound of his voice the horse lifted his head and gazed at the
boy in seeming surprise. A wisp of grass dangled from his mouth; his
ears pricked forward. Perhaps something in the boy's voice recalled
a voice he had known far back along his checkered life, when he was a
colt and a bare-legged youngster fed him sugar and rode astride his
back.
"He ought'a get a taste o' the gad hisself," muttered Maurice. "An'
he's goin' to be our teacher, oh, Gash! Well, I kin see where me an'
Billy Wilson gets ourn--maybe."
He patted the horse's thin neck. "Come, ol' feller, I'll stuff you
with good oats fer once," he promised.
The horse reached forward his long muzzle and lipped one of the boy's
ears. "Say horses don't understand!" grinned Maurice. "Gee! I
guess maybe they do understand, though."
He gave the horse another pat and led him down the path into the
stable. As he unsaddled him Maurice noticed the hickory wand which
Mr. Johnston had left inserted between the upper loops of a stirrup.
"Hully gee! ol' feller, look!" Maurice extracted the wand and held
it up before the animal's gaze. "Oh, don't put your ears back an'
grin at me. I ain't goin' to use it on you," laughed the lad.
"Look! This is what I'm goin' to do with that ol' bruiser's
pointer." From a trouser's pocket he extracted a jackknife. "Now
horsie, jest you watch me close. The next time he makes a cut at you
he's goin' to get the surprise of his life. There, see? I've cut it
through. Now I'll jest rub on some of this here clay to hide the
cut. There you be! If I know anythin' 'bout seasoned hickory that
pointer's goin' to split into needles right in his hand. I hope they
go through his ol' fist and clinch on t'other side."
Maurice gave the tired horse a feed of oats, tossed a bundle of
timothy into the manger, slapped the bay flank once again and went up
the path to his breakfast.
Mrs. Keeler, a swarthy woman, almost as broad as she was tall, and
with an habitual cloud of gloom on her features, met him at the door.
She was very deaf and spoke in the loud, querulous tone so often used
by people suffering from that affliction.
"Have you seen him?" she shouted. "What you think of him, Maurice?"
Maurice drew her outside and closed the door. "Come over behind the
woodpile, Ma, an' I'll tell you," he answered cautiously.
"No, tell me here."
"Can't. He might hear me."
"Then you ain't took to that new teacher, Maurice?"
"Not what you'd notice, Ma. He ain't any like Mr. Stanhope. His
face--I ain't likin' it a bit. Besides, Ma, he flogs his poor horse
somethin' awful."
"How do you know that?" asked the mother, eying him sharply.
"Cause he left long welts on him. He's out in the stable. Go see
fer yourself."
"No, I ain't got time. I got t' fry some more eggs an' ham. Go
'long in to your breakfast, an' see you keep your mouth shut durin'
the meal. An' look here," she admonished, "if I ketch you apullin'
the cat's tail durin' after-breakfast prayers I'll wollop you till
you can't stand."
Maurice meekly followed his mother inside and slipped into his
accustomed place at the table.
Mr. Johnston was certainly doing justice to the crisp ham and eggs on
the platter before him. Occasionally he lifted his black eyes to
flash a look at his host, who was entertaining him with the history
of the settlement and its people.
"You'll find Deacon Ringold a man whose word is as good as his bond,"
Cobin was saying. "I'm married to his sister, Hannah, but I ain't
sayin' this on that account. The deacon is a right good livin' man,
fond of his own opinions an' all that, an' close on a bargain, but a
good Christian man. He's better off than anybody else in these
parts. But what he got he got honest. I'll say that, even if he is
my own brother-in-law."
"Yes, yes," spoke Mr. Johnston, impatiently. "No doubt I shall get
to know Mr. Ringold very well. Now, sir, concerning your other
neighbors?" Mr. Johnston held a dripping yolk of egg poised, peering
from beneath his brows at his host.
"Well, there's the Proctors, five families of 'em an' every last one
of 'em a brother to the other."
"Meaning, I presume, that there are five brothers by the name of
Proctor living in the community."
"By Gosh, you've hit it right on the head. That's what eddication
does fer a man--makes him sharp as a razor. Yes, they're brothers
an' so much alike all I've got to do is describe one of 'em an' you
have 'em all."
"Remarkable," murmured Mr. Johnston. "Remarkable, indeed!"
"Did you say more tea, teacher?" Mrs. Keeler was at his elbow,
steaming tea-pot in hand.
"Thank you, I will have another cup," Mr. Johnston answered, and
turned his eyes back to Cobin.
"You have a neighbor named Stanhope, my predecessor, I understand,"
he said slowly.
"I'm proud to say we have, sir," beamed Keeler, "an' a squarer, finer
young man never lived. A mighty good teacher he was too, let me tell
you."
"I have no doubt. I have heard sterling reports of him; if he erred
in his task it was because he was too lenient. Tell me, Mr. Keeler,
is there not some history attached to him concerning a will, or
property left by a man by the name of Scroggie? I'll admit I have no
motive in so questioning save that of curiosity, but one wishes to
know all one can learn about the man one is to follow. Is that not
so, ma'am?" he asked, turning to the watchful hostess.
"More ham? Certainly." Mrs. Keeler came forward with a platter,
newly fried, and scraped two generous slices onto Mr. Johnston's
plate. "Now, sir, don't you be affeard to holler out when you want
more," said the hospitable housewife.
"Ma's deefness makes her misunderstan' sometimes," Cobin explained in
an undertone to the teacher. "But I was jest about to tell you Mr.
Stanhope's strange history, sir, an' about ol' Scroggie's will. You
sse the Stanhopes was the very first to drop in here an' take up
land, father an' son named Frank, who wasn't much more'n a boy, but
with a mighty good eddication.
"Roger Stanhope didn't live long but while he lived he was a right
good sort of man to foller an' before he died he had the satisfaction
of seein' the place in which he was one of the first to settle grow
up into a real neighborhood. Young Frank had growed into a big,
strappin' feller by this time an' took hold of the work his father
had begun, an' I must say he did marvels in the clearin' an' burnin'.
"So things went along fer a few years. Then come a letter from
England to Roger Stanhope. Frank read it to me. Seems they wanted
Stanhope back home, if he was alive; if not they wanted his son to
come. Frank didn't even answer that letter. He says to me, 'Mr.
Keeler, this spot's good enough fer me.' An' by gosh! he stayed.
"When this settlement growed big enough fer a school, young Frank,
who had a school teacher's di-ploma, offered to teach it. His farm
was pretty well cleared by this time, so he got a man named Henry
Burke to work it fer him an' Burke's wife to keep house. That was
five years ago, an' Frank has taught the Valley School ever since,
till now."
Keeler paused, and sighed deeply. "'Course, sir, you've heerd what
happened an' how? He was tryin' to save some horses from a burnin'
stable. A blazin' beam fell across his face; his eyes they--"
Keeler's voice grew husky.
"I've heard," said Mr. Johnston. "His was a brave and commendable
act."
"But he did a braver thing than that," cried Cobin. "He giv' up the
girl who was to marry him, 'cause, he said, his days from now on must
be useless ones, an' he wouldn't bind the woman he loved to his
bleakness an' blackness. Them was his very words, sir."
To this Mr. Johnston made no audible reply. He simply nodded,
waiting with suspended fork, for his narrator to resume.
"Concerning the purported will of the eccentric Mr. Scroggie?" he
ventured at length, his host having lapsed into silence.
Keeler roused himself from his abstraction and resumed: "Right next
to the Stanhope farm there stood about a thousand acres of the
purtiest hardwoods you ever clap't an eye on, sir. An ol' hermit of
a drunken Scotchman, Scroggie by name, owned that land. He lived in
a dirty little cabin an' was so mean even the mice was scared to eat
the food he scrimped himself on. He had money too, lots an' lots of
gold money. I've seen it myself. He kept it hid somewhere.
"When the Stanhopes built their home on the farm, which was then
mostly woods, old Scroggie behaved somethin' awful. He threatened to
shoot Stanhope. But Stanhope only laughed an' went on with his
cuttin' an' stump-pullin'. Scroggie used to swear he'd murder both
of 'em, an' he was always sayin' that if he died his ghost would come
back an' ha'nt the Stanhopes. Yes, he said that once in my own
hearin'.
"One night, two years after Roger Stanhope died, old Scroggie got
drunk an' would have froze to death if Frank hadn't found him an'
carried him into his own home. Scroggie cursed Frank fer it when he
came round but Frank paid no attention to him. After that,
Scroggie--who was too sick to be moved--got to takin' long spells of
quiet. He would jest set still an' watch Frank nights when the two
was alone together.
"After a while the old man got strong enough to go home. Soon after
that he disappeared an' stayed away fer nearly three weeks. Then,
all at once, he turned up at home ag'in. He came over to Stanhope's
house every now an' ag'in to visit with him. One night he says to
Frank after they had had supper: 'Frank,' says he, 'I've been over to
Cleveland an' I've made my will. I've left you everythin' I own.
You're the only decent person I've known since I lost my ol' mother.
I want that thousand acre woods to stand jest as God made it as long
as I'm alive; when I die you kin do what you like with it.' Then
afore Frank could even thank him the old man got up an' hobbled out.
"Next mornin'," continued Cobin, "Frank went over to see old
Scroggie. He wanted to hear him say what he told him the night
afore, ag'in. It was gettin' along towards spring; the day was warm
an' smelled of maple sap. Scroggie's cabin door was standin' ajar,
Frank says. The ol' man was sittin' in his chair, a Bible upside
down on his knees. He was dead!
"Frank told Mr. Reddick, the preacher who came to bury old Scroggie,
all that had passed between him an' the dead man but although they
hunted high an' low fer the will, they never found it. Nor did they
find any of the money the ol' miser must have left behind--not a
solitary cent. That was over a year ago, an' they haven't found
money or will yet. But this goes to show what a real feller Frank
Stanhope is. He put a fine grave stone up for ol' Scroggie an' had
his name engraved on it. Yes he done that, an' all he ever got from
the dead man was his curses.
"Well, soon after they put old Scroggie under the sod, along comes a
nephew of the dead man. No doubt in the world he was Scroggie's
nephew. He looked like him, an' besides he had the papers to prove
his claim that he was the dead man's only livin' relative. An' as
Scroggie hadn't left no will, this man was rightful heir to what he
had left behin', 'cordin' to law. He spent a week er two prowlin'
round, huntin' fer the dead man's buried money. At last he got
disgusted huntin' an' findin' nuthin' an' went away."
"And he left no address behind?" questioned Mr. Johnston.
"He surely did not," answered Cobin. "Nobody knows where he
went--nor cares. But nobody can do anythin' with that timber without
his sayso. It's a year or more since ol' Scroggie died. People do
say that his ghost floats about the old cabin, at nights, but of
course that can't be, sir."
"Superstitious nonsense," scoffed the teacher. "And so the will was
never found?"
"No, er the buried money," sighed Cobin.
Mr. Johnston pushed his chair back from the table. "Thank you
exceedingly, Mr. Keeler. I have enjoyed your breakfast and your
conversation very much indeed. Madam," he said, rising and turning
to Mrs. Keeler, "permit me to extend to you my heartfelt gratitude
for your share in the splendid hospitality that has been accorded me.
I hope to see you again, some day."
"Certainly," returned Mrs. Keeler, "Cobin! Maurice! kneel down
beside your chairs. The teacher wants to pray."
Mr. Johnston frowned, then observing his host and hostess fall to
their knees, he too got stiffly down beside his chair. He prayed
long and fervently and ended by asking God to help him lead these
people from the shadow into enlightenment.
It was during that prayer that Maurice, chancing to glance at the
window, saw Billy Wilson's pet crow, Croaker, peering in at him with
black eyes. Now, as Croaker often acted as carrier between the boys,
his presence meant only one thing--Billy had sent him some message.
Cautiously Maurice got down on all fours and crept toward the door.
"Now teacher," said Keeler, the prayer over, "you jest set still, an'
I'll send Maurice out after your horse."
He glanced around in search of the boy. "Why, bless my soul, he's
gone!" he exclaimed. "There's a youngster you'll need to watch
close, teacher," he said grimly.
"Well sir, you jest rest easy an' I'll get your horse myself."