HELPERS
The man who had come so noiselessly over the grass, from Cat Hollow,
might well have been the "Nanarchist" his daughter had termed him, were
one to judge from tradition and appearance; and it is small wonder that
Mrs. Chester had cried out so unexpectedly, beholding this specimen of
the "Red Brotherhood."
Tall beyond the average, "Pa Babcock"--he was rarely spoken of
otherwise--had a great head covered by a shock of fiery hair which
proved Alfaretta truthful in her statement that "he'd disdain to comb
it." The hair was stiff and bristly, and stood out in every direction,
while the beard matched it in growth and quantity. He wore a faded red
flannel shirt, and denim overalls that had once been red, while his
great hairy feet were bare and not too clean. He wore no hat and
scarcely needed one, and while his physique was that of a mighty man
his face was foolishly weak and vain. His voice perfectly suited the
face: and, altogether, he was a most unprepossessing candidate for the
position of "hired man" at Skyrie.
"You wish to hire out?" asked the mistress of the farm, repeating
incredulously his statement. "But I thought--Alfaretta said----"
"I do not doubt it. The reputation I have won at the hands of my own
household is part of the general injustice of society--as it exists.
Nothing can convince my labor-loving spouse that I am preparing for her
and her children a future of--Stay, lad: are you, also, a member of this
establishment?"
"I'm goin' down suller after lumber. Come along an' help. If we hustle
right smart we can get a pen done 'fore dark, let alone gettin' them
cattle into a shed. Strange critters need shuttin' up, a spell, else
they'll make tracks for home--wherever 'tis," answered Jim, leading the
way toward the house and the door he judged must lead to the cellar. His
own voice sounded very strong and masterful by contrast with the high,
thin falsetto of the "Nanarchist," and Mrs. Chester smiled, while
Dorothy cried out:
"Alfy's father may be a _giant_, but my Jim is a _man_!"
They were no longer afraid of "Pa Babcock." His outward appearance
wholly belied his nature, and they instinctively recognized that here
was an easy-going, lazy fellow, who might impress his own household with
a sense of his importance but could not overawe outsiders. They sat down
on the barn doorsill to wait and watch events, and presently there
returned Pa Babcock carrying an enormous quantity of the heavy, cobwebby
planking that had formed the framework of the old churn. Behind him was
Jim, rolling the treadmill part of the affair and as profoundly
engrossed by the task in hand as by all he undertook. He had evidently
assumed the direction of matters and his big assistant was amusingly
obedient.
Mr. Chester, also, came out to the spot and was made comfortable with an
old horse-blanket for cushion of a low chopping-block near. Dorothy
found the blanket in the barn and also triumphantly asserted that there
was a lot of "real nice hay" in one part of it. But Jim scoffed at this
statement, declaring that hay kept as long as Skyrie had been closed
wouldn't be "wuth shucks."
"James, James! Don't become a pessimist!" warned father John, yet
smiling, too.
"Say it again, please, sir, an' I'll look it out in that little
dictionary Mis' Calvert she's put in my room. Hurry up, man! Wish to
goodness I had some decent tools! Nothin' but a rusty ax to work
with--an' look yonder at that sky!"
All looked and mother Martha grew frightened. She was timid during any
thunder shower and this was worse than a shower which threatened--a
tornado seemed imminent. To retreat indoors and help John to get there
was her first impulse, but Pa Babcock held up a protesting hand and she
hesitated, curiously observing his movements. Moistening his fingers he
let the rising wind blow over them, then calmly resumed his task of
nailing a board to a post in the cattle-shed still left standing beside
the barn.
"It will not come on to rain till midnight. Then look out for a deluge.
You are perfectly and entirely safe here, ma'am, until our undertaking
is accomplished and it is always well to have the eye of the master--I
would say, mistress--upon----"
"Hand over that scantlin', old step-an'-fetch-it!" ordered Jim, with
scant reverence and--the scantling was handed. Furthermore, Pa was set
to searching the barn for a possible crowbar, pick-ax, or, "Any plaguy
thing a feller can bore a post-hole with."
Thus rudely interrupted, the "Nanarchist" calmly surveyed his companion
in labor, then squeaked out:
"There is no occasion for such remarkable activity, young man, but----"
"Hurry up! 'Twon't be no midnight 'fore that 'gust' strikes us!" ordered
Jim Barlow.
Anger is a wonderful incentive to action--sometimes. At last Pa Babcock
was angry--as much so as it was in his nature ever to be. The result was
that he fell to work with a vigor and skill that almost distanced Jim's
own; to the great advantage of the Chesters and their live stock.
By the time darkness had come a pig-pen had been constructed in one end
of the cattle-shed; a milking-stool had been nailed into shape and
Hannah milked--with a remarkable shrinkage in the amount Oliver Sands
had accredited to her: she and "Daisy-Jewel" put under cover for the
night: and the rickety barn-doors nailed here and there as a precaution
against the coming "gust."
This seemed long delayed; yet Jim was wise enough to button his blouse
tightly across his heated chest and to take his prompt departure the
moment his self-imposed tasks were finished; Mrs. Chester calling after
him:
"Don't forget to thank Mrs. Calvert for her kindness about the mail and
tell her, please, that this letter held the change due us after the
printing of that advertisement And thank _you_, James Barlow, for all
your helpfulness in everything."
The lad went onward, with a comfortable sense of having been extremely
useful and with all his slight jealousy allayed; reflecting, also:
"There ain't one that lot got any more sense about farmin' than a spring
chicken! Not so much, either; 'cause a chicken _will_ stir round an'
scratch a livin' out the ground, sooner 'n starve. Dorothy, she--Well,
she's got some ideas, kind of dull ones, but might answer once she gets
'em sharpened by tryin' an' failin'; but--Pshaw! I wish to goodness she
was a boy an' not a girl! Then there'd be some show. As 'tis--shucks!"
The day may come, Master James, when you'll be very glad that your wish
could not be gratified! Meanwhile, as you plod along beneath the trees,
sighing and moaning overhead--in seeming terror of the coming storm--the
family at Skyrie have re-entered the cottage: and with the ease of one
who belongs, Pa Babcock has entered with them.
"Will you stay for supper, Mr. Babcock, or shall we take some other time
for talking about business?" asked Mr. Chester, as their new
acquaintance coolly settled himself in the invalid's own rocker by the
window and began to sway lazily to and fro, while the host himself took
a straight chair near by.
"O father John! Don't sit there. I'm sure Mr. Babcock will----" began
Dorothy, indignant at the stranger's selfishness.
But her father stopped her by a shake of his head and a smile of
amusement which neither she nor Martha shared: though the latter did
say, politely enough:
"I never knew anybody to come at a time they were more needed, for
without your help Jim could never have fixed things so nicely. We owe
you many thanks and some money. How much you will have to say, for we
know little about wages here in the North."
Pa waited for her to finish, then ejaculated:
"I should say I did help! Done it all, if you'll recall the
circumstances again. Furnished all the brain power anyway, and skilled
labor outranks muscle at any time. He means well, that boy: but--I
wonder if he realizes his own position in society! A poor, down-trodden
member of the lower class. I must see him again. I must uplift him!
Ennoble him! Rouse his slumbering ambition--Make a man of him! I----"
"You couldn't! I don't mean to be rude, but you mustn't talk about my
Jim that way. He _isn't_ down-trodden. He _is_ uplifted. He's going to
make a man of himself, for himself, by himself--without you or even dear
Mrs. Cecil interfering. She'll help, of course, for she's rich and has
the chance, but a boy like Jim Barlow--Huh!" cried Dorothy in valiant
defense of her faithful friend, and with a contemptuous glance at this
great man whom she had disliked on the instant.
"Dorothy! Dorothy C.!" reproved Mrs. Chester in her sternest accents,
yet not far behind her daughter in the matter of dislike. The man seemed
such a sham, but--"Praise the bridge that carries you safe over!" He was
willing to be hired and they needed him.
Pa Babcock paid no more attention to the girl's outbreak than he did to
the fly perambulating his frowsy forehead and which he was too indolent
to brush aside; and indignant at this, also, Dorothy went about bringing
food from the pantry and depositing dishes upon the table with most
unnecessary decision. She hoped, oh! how she hoped that her parents
would refuse to employ this "Anarchist"; or, if they did so, that they
would prohibit his coming to the family table.
However, here he was and supper was ready, and he was invited to draw
near; yet to the surprise of all, with the provision stipulated for by
the host:
"To-night, Mr. Babcock, we consider you our guest: but should you engage
to work for us I would like to arrange that you should board yourself.
Mrs. Chester has no servant."
"Sir, I admire her for it! Let every member of society serve himself and
the reign of equality begins. My wife is a fine cook and there will be
no difficulty in our arrangements. Oliver Sands is my good friend, and
it is by his suggestion that I am here. He is a man as is a man! There
is no giving of titles by him. A plain man, Oliver, though not--not
quite as fully imbued with the doctrines of universal equality and
brotherhood as I should desire. Sir, are you a--Socialist?"
Certainly this strange man was what his daughter had described him, "a
good talker," judging from the ready flow of language, and of better
quality than is commonly found in men of his class. Though this may be
accounted for by the fact that he was a greedy reader--of any and every
thing which came his way. But to this suddenly propounded inquiry Mr.
Chester answered, with his own merry smile:
"No, indeed! Nothing half so 'uplifted' or ambitious. Just a poor,
afflicted fellow out of work and anxious to make a living for his
family. Let us get through our meal and come to business."
Fortunately, while Pa Babcock was eating he could not well talk, and he
was one, as Alfaretta had said, "could always relish his victuals." He
now relished so many of prudent mother Martha's that her heart sank,
knowing that food costs money and money was unpleasantly scarce in that
cottage; but, at last, he seemed satisfied and pushed back from the
table, saying:
"Now, let's settle things. I was sent here, first off, by my friend
Oliver Sands, to negotiate a loan for him--for your benefit. He's a
forehanded fellow, Oliver is, and always ready to help those along who
are in trouble or--He's wanted to put a mortgage on my place in Cat
Hollow, so's to give me time and opportunity--meaning cash--to
promulgate the principles of----"
"Yes," said John impatiently.
"Of course, you understand. All sensible persons do and I shall
eventually convert you to my ideas----"
"Possibly, possibly! But return to your errand from the miller, please.
It's growing late and we've had a fatiguing day."
"I was just coming to it. He was so pleased by you and your family, so
delighted to find your wife, here, such a woman of business, that he
wished me to say that in case you were in need of funds, a little ready
money, you know, he would feel perfectly safe in advancing it: securing
it, of course, by the necessary documents."
Mr. and Mrs. Chester exchanged glances, which Dorothy did not see. She
had escaped the obnoxious presence of this man by simply going to bed,
meaning to get up again, as soon as he should depart, and bid her
parents good-night. Then said the ex-postman, after this brief
telegraphing of opinions:
"Mr. Sands has guessed correctly. We are in need of ready money--to get
things into running order; but the property is my wife's and, like your
friend, I have the fullest confidence in her business ability. She will
do as she thinks best."
Now what a cruel thing is jealousy! It had embittered the honest heart
of Jim Barlow, earlier in the day, and now attacked the tender one of
Martha Chester. It was quite true--they did need money. True, also, that
they had expected to raise it by a mortgage on Skyrie, at present free
and clear. They knew that this money would be forthcoming from the
mistress of Deerhurst, simply upon application, and upon the most
favorable terms. She had already delicately hinted at the matter, and
had her visit to the cottage been made that morning, as she intended, it
would doubtless have been settled.
But Martha Chester disliked to be beholden to the old gentlewoman who
"made so much of Dorothy" and who, the mother fancied, was superseding
herself in the child's heart. It had become a habit of Dorothy's to
quote Mrs. Cecil as a paragon of all the virtues, and the child's
ambition was to form her own manners and opinions upon her "fairy
godmother's."
Now offered a chance for independence which Mrs. Chester eagerly seized,
without protest from her husband, though inwardly he disapproved putting
themselves in the power of a stranger when there stood ready to take
his place a tried, true friend.
"Shall you see Mr. Sands again, to-night?" she asked.
"No, ma'am. I'm due to deliver an oration in the 'Sons of Freedom' Hall,
Upper Village, eight o'clock sharp, tickets twenty-five cents. Oliver
directed me to say that if you would send your little daughter to
Heartsease, his place, to-morrow morning he would make it his pleasure
to call and arrange everything. He's a sort of lawyer, himself. And, oh
yes! If you should need anything in the way of feed or fodder he is
always ready to supply his customers, at the ruling prices and with
dispatch.
"Which brings me, ma'am and sir, to the subject of wages between
ourselves; and if it's handy, to the payment for my services in erecting
a pig-pen and repairing a cow-manger. Let me see. Two hours, at a dollar
an hour--Two dollars, I make it. Do you find me right?"
Well! Pa Babcock might look like a simpleton, but he could use his queer
voice to his own advantage!
John Chester shrugged his shoulders and Martha replied with considerable
crispness:
"A dollar an hour! I never heard of such a thing. In Baltimore----"
"We are not in Baltimore, much as I should admire to visit that city.
Skilled labor, you know----"
"But the _skill_ was poor Jim Barlow's, and the lumber _mine_. At such a
rate your farm services would be worth a fortune, and far more than I
could pay. I hoped to get somebody to work 'on shares'; or at least,
very cheaply."
"For the present, ma'am, there wouldn't be any 'shares.' The ground is
absolutely profitless. But I am not exorbitant, nor would I grind the
face of the poor. I am a poor man myself. I glory in it. I think that
two dollars and a half a day would be fair to both sides."
With this the high, thin voice subsided and John Chester took up the
theme, like his wife quoting their old city as a unit of measurement:
"In Baltimore, or its suburbs, a day or farm laborer would not earn more
than a dollar and a half, or even so low as a dollar and a quarter."
"Per day, working on every consecutive day?" asked this would-be
employee, leaning back in the rocker and folding his arms. It seemed he
never could form a sentence without putting into it the largest words at
his command, and listening to him, Martha almost hoped that their
present discussion would prove fruitless. However could they endure his
wordiness!
"Yes. Of course it would be every day," she answered.
But his next remark came with an originality worthy none other than
himself:
"Very well. I have my price and my opinion--you have yours. Let us meet
one another halfway. I will work only every other day--I can do as much
as two ordinary men, anyway--and thus you will be called upon for no
more than you would have had to pay some assistant from privileged
Baltimore."
"But we could not board you!" protested John Chester. "I cannot have
extra labor imposed upon my wife."
Pa Babcock rose, stretching all his mighty limbs as if he would convince
these strangers that he could, indeed, accomplish the work of two
ordinary men per day; then, waving the trivial matter of board aside
with an airy lightness which his recent exhibition of appetite scarcely
warranted, announced:
"We will consider the affair closed. I will work every other day,
Sundays excluded, at two dollars and a half per day and find myself. I
will enter upon my duties to-morrow morning, and I now wish you
good-night. I go to establish the rule of equality in this unenlightened
neighborhood."
So saying he slipped out of the house, a fearsome-looking but wholly
harmless "crank," who seemed rather to have left his shadow behind him
than to have taken it with him. As he departed the roar of thunder, the
brilliant flash of lightning, filled the room; and, forestalling a
remonstrance she feared might be forthcoming, mother Martha exclaimed:
"The storm is coming at last. I must go see to all the windows."
"I'll limp around and help you; and, wife dear, I can't help feeling we
should think twice before we take up with that miller's offer. He's too
sweet to be wholesome and I know that Mrs. Calvert----"
"The matter is settled, John. You reminded me that Skyrie was my
property. I claim the right to use my own judgment in the case. I will
send Dorothy to see that kind old Quaker early to-morrow."
She did. But as her husband went about with her that evening, making all
secure against the tempest, the shadow that Pa Babcock had left behind
him--the shadow of almost their first disagreement--followed her light
footsteps and the tap-tap of his crutches from room to room.
Till at last they came to the little upper chamber which they had both
vied in making attractive for Dorothy's homecoming and saw her sleeping
there; her lovely innocent face flushed in slumber and dearer to them
both than anything else in life.
"It was for her, else I'd have let John have his way and ask Mrs. Cecil.
But I cannot have her drawn away from me--and she's being drawn, she's
being drawn," thought mother Martha, stopping to straighten a moist
curl and kiss the pretty cheek.
"Oh! if only for that darling's sake we had trusted Mrs. Cecil. She has
trusted us: but Martha--Well, women are kittle cattle. I don't
understand them, but somehow I'm sorry," was his reflection.
So they went down again, he limping, she skipping almost like a girl,
but with a division of thought which saddened both.