HIS RELATIVES AND HIS NEIGHBORS
He opened the door and was confronted by a pair of total strangers—a
man and a woman, bundled up to the ears and tracking snow all over the
kitchen floor. A tall man with short black whiskers and a frail little
woman with red, wind-smitten cheeks and a nose from which depended a
globular bit of moisture.
Mr. Sikes stared at the couple and they stared at him.
“I’ve been knocking at the front door for ten minutes,” said the man,
thickly.
“So we finally had to come to the kitchen door,” added the woman, eyeing
Mr. Sikes accusingly.
“Isn’t there anybody here to answer the front door?” demanded her
companion.
“I don’t seem to recollect locking it,” said Mr. Sikes, stiffening
perceptibly. He did not like the tone or the manner of these strangers.
“There wasn’t anything to stop you from turning the knob, was there, and
walkin’ right in—same as you did out here?”
“We are not in the habit of walking into people’s houses like that,”
said the black-whiskered man, somewhat tartly. “Come on, Ida; let’s go
into the sitting-room.”
“Just a second,” interposed Mr. Sikes. “I’m sort of in charge here and I
guess I’ll have to ask who you are.”
“I am Oliver Baxter’s sister,” said the red-nosed woman, “and this is my
husband, Mr. Gooch. We drove all the way over here to take charge of
things for my brother during his—”
“Seems to me I smell rubber burning,” broke in Mr. Gooch, sniffing
vigorously. His eye fell upon the cigar that Mr. Sikes was holding
between his thumb and forefinger.
Mr. Sikes took umbrage. He stepped forward and held the cigar close to
Mr. Gooch’s nose.
“Smell it,” he said, as the other jerked his head back in surprise.
“That’s as good a cigar as you can get anywhere on earth for ten
cents—and it only costs five.”
“I—I am not a smoker,” Mr. Gooch made haste to explain, being a trifle
overcome by Joseph’s far from ingratiating manner.
“Well, I’m just telling you,” announced Joseph, inserting the cigar
between his back teeth with a somewhat challenging abruptness. “You say
you’re Ollie’s relations?”
“Yes; I am his sister. I want to see him at once. Where is he?”
“Well, I guess if you are his sister you’d better come into the
sitting-room and take your things off,” said Mr. Sikes grudgingly. “I’ve
heard him speak of some folks of his living over in Hopkinsville.” He
led the way into the sitting-room. “Make yourselves to home. I guess
maybe Ollie will be down after while, unless he’s gone to bed. He’s all
wore out. And I might as well tell you first as last,” he went on
pointedly, “he’s occupying the only spare bedroom they’ve got in the
house, so I don’t see how I can ask you to stay the night.”
Mrs. Gooch paused in the act of unwinding a thick scarf from her neck.
She gave Mr. Sikes a “look.”
“Are you the undertaker?” she demanded.
“The—the _what_? Good gosh, no!”
“Well, how do you happen to be running things if you are not? You act as
if—”
“When did Mary die?” asked Mr. Gooch, throwing his great ulster upon the
dining-table.
“She ain’t dead,” was all the astonished Mr. Sikes could say. “Not by a
long sight.”
“Well, of all the—” began Mr. Gooch, compressing his lips. “And we
drove nearly eighteen miles through all this dodgasted weather to be a
support and a comfort to Ollie Baxter in his trouble. You say she
_ain’t_ dead?”
“Certainly not. Whatever put that notion in your head?”
“We had a telegram along about noon signed by Oliver, saying his wife
was not expected to live through the day. All hope had been given up,”
said Mrs. Gooch, beginning to cry.
“That’s just like the derned fool,” said Mr. Sikes. “He can’t believe
his own eyes, he’s so excited. Why, Mary and the baby are both as lively
as crickets. I heard—”
“The _baby_?” fell simultaneously from the lips of Mr. and Mrs. Gooch.
Both mouths remained open.
“What baby?” added Mrs. Gooch, spreading her tear-drenched eyes.
“Why, her’s and Ollie’s—Say, didn’t you know they had a baby this
morning?”
“A _baby_?” gasped the lady, incredulously.
“But we didn’t know they were expecting one,” said her husband,
scowling. “Mighty strange Oliver never even mentioned—”
“Are you telling the truth?” demanded Mrs. Gooch. “Or are you just
trying to be funny?”
Mr. Sikes removed the cigar from his jaws. “It’s nothing to me, ma’am,
whether you believe it or not,” said he.
Baxter’s brother-in-law allowed his gaze to roam around the room. “Maybe
we’re in the wrong house, Ida,” he said. “We haven’t been in Rumley
since Oliver set up housekeeping. Like as not, that feller down at the
drug store gave us the wrong—”
“This is Oliver Baxter’s house,” said Sikes shortly. “He moved in here
the day after the wedding, and he ain’t moved out of it since, far as I
know.”
“And who are you?” inquired Mr. Gooch.
“Me? My name is Sikes, Joseph Sikes. I’m Ollie’s best friend, if you
want to know. I stood up with him when he was married, and I’ve been
standin’ up for him ever since. If you’ve got anything nasty to say
about Oliver Baxter, I guess you’d better not say it in my hearin’, Mr.
Gooch.”
“I have no intention of saying anything nasty about my wife’s brother,”
retorted Mr. Gooch.
“I know all about you,” said Mr. Sikes, replacing his cigar and scowling
darkly. “I’ve heard Ollie speak of you a hundred times. He ain’t got any
use for you.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Gooch.
“Well, I don’t mind telling you,” said Mr. Gooch, bridling, “I haven’t
any use for him. I never did take any stock in brother-in-laws, anyhow,
and that’s why I’ve never had anything to do with Baxter. You can tell
him—”
“I guess you’re forgettin’ that you are a brother-in-law yourself, ain’t
you?” interrupted Mr. Sikes, with a most offensive snigger.
“Are you trying to pick a quarrel with my husband?”
“As I said before,” explained Mr. Sikes, “I am Ollie Baxter’s best
friend, and I certainly ain’t going to allow anybody like a
brother-in-law to come in here at a time like this and get off any
insinuations. This is the happiest day of Ollie Baxter’s life—that is,
it will be when he gets his right senses back—and it ain’t going to be
spoiled, not even behind his back, if I can help it. Especially by a
brother-in-law.”
“The man has been drinking,” said Mrs. Gooch, sniffing the air.
“You’re right,” confessed Joseph promptly. “I’ve had a couple of good
swigs out of this pint, and I’m proud of it. It helps me to say what I
think about people that Ollie Baxter don’t like. I’ve been waitin’ for
nearly ten years to tell you what I think of you, Mr. Gooch, for the way
you acted toward Ollie when he tried to get his sister here to help pay
for a tombstone for their father’s grave, and you—”
“I’ll thank you to mind your own business,” exclaimed Mr. Gooch loudly.
“I don’t want to be thanked for it,” shouted Mr. Sikes. “It’s my
business to tell you a few things about yourself, so don’t thank me.”
“Oh, my goodness!” wailed Mrs. Gooch. “In my own brother’s house, too. I
never was so insulted in all my life. Oliver! Oliver, where are you?
Come down here and order this man out of your house.”
“No use yellin’ for Oliver,” said Mr. Sikes. “He won’t hear you.” Then
he swallowed hard. “Come to think of it, I guess I ought to apologize,
ma’am. Which I hereby do. I haven’t had much sleep lately, worrying over
this joyous occasion, and I guess I’m a bit crusty. I hereby welcome you
to Ollie’s house, speaking in his place, and ask you to have a chair
over here by the stove. You can sit down too if you want to, Mr. Gooch.
To show you there’s no hard feelings on this joyous occasion, I’ll even
go so far as to ask you to have a drink out of this bottle. It’s—”
“My husband does not drink,” said Mrs. Gooch, stiffly.
“You might let him off just this once,” pleaded Mr. Sikes, tactlessly.
Horace Gooch frowned. “I’ve never touched a drop of intoxicating liquid
in my life, sir.”
Sikes opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, choked
the words off, and then offered the following substitute: “Terrible
weather for this time of year, ain’t it?”
There was no response to this conciliating commonplace, nor to the
invitation to sit down. Mrs. Gooch, having divested herself of coat,
scarf, bonnet and overshoes, was straightening her hair before the
looking-glass, while her husband surveyed the room and its contents with
the disdainful air of one used to much better things.
You could tell by the expression on his face that the floor of his
parlor was covered by a gorgeous Brussels instead of the many-hued rag
carpet that served Oliver Baxter and his wife; and where they had
old-fashioned horse-hair chairs and a sofa, he possessed articles so
handsomely done in plush that it was almost a sin to occupy them. If he
had not come directly from contact with a biting wind, one might have
been justified in construing his frequent and audible sniffs as of scorn
rather than of necessity. He was a tall, lank man with narrow shoulders,
narrow face, and a pair of extremely narrow black eyes. He typified
prosperity of the meaner kind. Over in Hopkinsville, Horace Gooch was
considered the richest and the stingiest man in town. He was what is
commonly called a “tax shark,” deriving a lucrative and obnoxious income
through his practice of buying up real estate at tax-sales and holding
it until it was redeemed by the hard-pressed owner, or, as it happened
in many instances, acquiring the property under a provision of the state
law then in operation, whereby after a prescribed lapse of time he was
enabled to secure a tax deed in his own name. He also trafficked in
chattel mortgages.
No one, not even his fellow church members, had ever been known to get
the better of him. It must be said for him, however, he went to church
twice every Sunday and invariably did his share toward spreading the
gospel by dropping a noisy quarter into the collection plate at both
services. And so astute a business man was he that he never was without
the proper change. His brother-in-law called him a “blood-sucking
skinflint,” and it is not in the power of the teller of this tale to
improve upon that except by quoting from the unprintable opinions of his
victims.
Mrs. Gooch was Oliver’s only sister, and had married Horace Gooch when
in her teens. At thirty-eight she was still wondering if she was really
good enough for him and if he had not made a mistake in marrying her
when there were so many other girls he might have had for the asking.
Sometimes Horace made her feel that he could have done better. At any
rate, she was never allowed to be in doubt as to what he thought of all
the other Baxters, living or dead. They were as “common as dirt.” At
first it was difficult for her to be ashamed of Oliver without being
equally disgusted with herself, but as time went on and she became more
and more of a Gooch this irritating sensitiveness eased off into a state
of contemptuous pity for her insignificant brother. His marriage to a
toll-gate keeper’s daughter sent him down several pegs in her
estimation, notwithstanding Mr. Gooch’s sarcastic contention that Oliver
had wedded far above his station—indeed, he went on to say, he didn’t
believe it possible for Oliver to find any one beneath his station, no
matter how hard he tried or how far he looked.
And yet when word came by wire that there was to be a death in the
family, Ida Gooch overlooked everything and hastened to her brother’s
side, drawn not so much by sisterly affection as by the desire to take
an active and public part in any family sorrow or bereavement. Having
looked forward, over eighteen miles of wind-swept highways, to a house
of grief, she was not only shocked but secretly annoyed to find that
life instead of death had visited the humble home of her brother. She
knew she would never hear the last of it from Horace, who hated babies.
They had no children of their own.
But now that she was here, she was determined to make the most of the
situation.
“I shall take charge here,” she announced to Mr. Sikes. “Is this the way
upstairs?”
Mr. Sikes nodded. “But if I was you,” he said, “I’d hold my horses.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I guess you’d better ask Serepty Grimes before you begin to take charge
here,” said he grimly.
“Serepty who?”
“Grimes. She’s running this house at present. Her husband used to run
the Rumley sawmill before he died. Serepty’s running it now.”
“That doesn’t cut any figure with me,” announced Mrs. Gooch firmly. “I
am going up to Mary’s room—her name is Mary, isn’t it?—to see what
there is to do for—”
“Wait a minute, Ida,” interrupted her husband. “I wouldn’t go busting
into that room until I found out whether I was wanted or not.”
“Let her go, man,” cried Mr. Sikes, eagerly. “But if she was my
wife—and thank God, I’m a single man—I’d stand at the foot of the
stairs to ketch her when she comes down.”
“Do you mean to say that my own brother would lay violent hands—”
“Ollie Baxter? I should say not. He ain’t got anything more to do with
running this house than I have. Why, Serepty wouldn’t let Napoleon
Bonaparte into Mrs. Baxter’s room if he was to come here in full
uniform. But don’t take my word for it. Go ahead. You might as well get
it over with. I wouldn’t any more think of going up them steps, big as I
am, without receiving orders from her, than I’d think of sticking my
head in this stove.”
“I will soon get rid of Mrs. Grimes,” said she, tossing her head.
As she started to leave the room, a loud knocking at the front door rose
above the howl of the wind. Sikes resuming his office as master of
ceremonies, pushed his way past Mrs. Gooch and opened the door to admit
a woman and two men. The first to enter the sitting-room was a tall man
wearing a thin black overcoat and a high silk hat. The former was
buttoned close about his shivering frame, the latter jammed well down
upon his ears to meet the vagaries of the tempestuous wind. This was the
Reverend Herbert Sage, pastor of the Presbyterian Church of Rumley. The
lady was his wife.
The other member of the trio, a fat, red-faced, jolly looking man of
indeterminate age, was Silas Link, the undertaker, upholsterer and
livery-man of Rumley. We encounter him now in the last-mentioned
capacity, hence his cheery grin, his loud-checked trousers and his brown
derby set jauntily over his right ear. He wore a buffalo-skin overcoat.
In his capacity as upholsterer and furniture-repairer he affected a
dusty suit of overalls of a butternut hue and wore spectacles that gave
him a solemn, owl-like expression. As an undertaker he was
irreproachably lachrymose despite his rosy cheeks, and he never
“officiated” except in a tight-fitting Prince Albert coat, a plug hat, a
white cravat and a pair of black cotton gloves. In view of the fact that
he so rarely is called upon to appear in the character of undertaker,
owing to the infrequency of emergencies, and also that we are likely to
come in contact with him a dozen times a day as a livery-man, it is only
fair to introduce him here in the most cheerful of his three rôles,
especially as we may never have occasion to call upon him for repairs.
The “Reverend” Sage—he was always spoken of as the “Reverend”—was a
good-looking young man of thirty, threadbare and a trifle wan, with
kindly brown eyes set deep under a broad, intelligent brow. He had a
wide, generous mouth and a pleasant smile; a fine nose, a square chin,
and a deep, gentle voice. For three years he had been shepherd of the
Presbyterians in Rumley, and he was as poor if not actually poorer than
the day he came to the town from the theological institute in Chicago.
His salary was eight hundred dollars a year, exclusive of “pickings,” as
Mr. Baxter called the pitiful extras derived from weddings, funerals and
“pound parties.” Come November, there was always a “pound party” for the
minister, and it was on such occasions that he received from his flock
all sorts and manner of donations. His wife in one of her letters to a
girl friend in Chicago mentioned twenty-six pairs of carpet slippers
“standing in a row,” seventeen respectfully knitted mufflers, numberless
mittens and wristlets, and she couldn’t tell what else until she had
gone through all the drawers and closets in the parsonage.
Which brings us to the wife, and also to an absolutely unaccountable
anomaly. It is not difficult to explain how he came to fall in love with
her and why he married her. That might have happened to any man.
Likewise it is fairly easy to understand how she came to fall in love
with him, for he was dreamy-eyed and reluctant. But how she came to
marry him, knowing what it meant to be the wife of an impoverished
preacher, is past all understanding. She was a handsome, dashing young
woman of twenty-three: the type one meets on the streets of New York or
Chicago and is unable to decide whether she is rich or poor, good or
bad, idle or industrious, smart or common. Certainly one would never
find her counterpart in a town like Rumley except by the accident of
importation, and then only as a bird of passage. When she came to Rumley
as a bride in the June preceding the birth of Oliver October Baxter,
Rumley was aghast. It could not believe its thousand eyes. Small wonder,
then, that the precious Mrs. Gooch and her even more precious husband
gazed upon her as if their own slightly distended eyes were
untrustworthy.
She was tall, willowy, and startling. She wore a sealskin coat—at least
it looked like seal—with sleeves that ballooned grandly at the
shoulders; a picture hat that sat rakishly—(no doubt the wind had
something to do with its angle)—upon a crown of black hair neatly
banged in front and so extensively puffed behind that it looked for all
the world like an intricate mass of sausages in peril of being dislodged
at every step she took; rather stunning coral ear-rings made up of
graduated globes; a slinky satin skirt of black with a long, sweeping
train that, being released from her well-gloved hand, dragged swishily
across the cheap rag carpet with a sort of contemptuous hiss. A roomy
pair of rubber boots, undoubtedly the property of her husband, completed
her costume.
“Good evening, Mr. Sikes,” she drawled, as she scuffled past him into
the sitting-room. “Nice balmy weather to be born in, isn’t it?”
Mr. Sikes, taken unawares, forgot himself so far as to wink at the
parson, and then, in some confusion, stammered: “St-step right in, Mrs.
Sage, and have a chair. Evening, Mr. Sage. How are ye, Silas? Help
yourself to a cigar. Take off your things, Mrs. Sage. Oliver will be
mighty glad to see—”
“How is Mrs. Baxter, Joseph?” inquired the parson, removing his hat with
an effort. It had been jammed down rather low on his head.
“The thing is,” put in Mr. Link, cheerily, as he began to shed his coat,
“is old Ollie likely to pull through? I’ve been up here six or seven
times to-day and dogged if I know whether to hitch up the hearse or the
band wagon.”
Sikes scowled at the speaker and jerked his head significantly in the
direction of the Gooches. “Come right up to the stove, Mrs. Sage,” said
he, dragging a rocker forward. “You must be mighty chilly.”
“Only my legs,” announced the preacher’s wife.
Mrs. Gooch winced. In her circle, ladies never mentioned legs unless
alluding to dining-room tables, or fried chickens, or animate objects
such as dogs, horses, cows and sheep. And when she found out later on
that this startling person was a minister’s wife, she wondered what the
world was coming to. Somehow, it seemed to her, nothing could be so
incongruous or so disillusioning as the wife of a preacher having legs.
“This is Oliver’s sister,” introduced Mr. Sikes, awkwardly. “From
Hopkinsville. Reverend Sage, Mrs. Gooch. Mr. Link, Mrs. Gooch. And this
is Oliver’s brother-in-law, her husband, also of Hopkinsville.”
Everybody bowed. “I didn’t catch the lady’s name,” said Mrs. Gooch.
“Permit me to introduce my wife,” said the Reverend Sage, advancing to
the stove, rubbing his extended palms together. “A bitter night, is it
not?”
“Very,” said Mrs. Gooch.
“Very,” said Mr. Gooch.
“Tough on horses,” said Mr. Link.
“Very,” said Mr. Sikes.
General conversation, after this laconic start, died suddenly. Everybody
stood and looked at everybody else for a few moments, and then Mr. Sikes
had a happy inspiration. He began shoveling coal from the scuttle into
the already blushing stove, making a great deal of racket. The others
watched him intently, as if they never had seen anything so interesting
as a stove being stuffed with fuel.
“And all sorts of live stock,” added Mr. Link, apparently startled into
speech by the closing of the stove door.
“From Hopkinsville, did you say?” inquired Mr. Sage politely, turning to
Mr. Gooch.
“Yes,” said Mr. Gooch succinctly.
“Ah, a—er—very enterprising town—very enterprising. Ahem!”
“Where is it?” asked Mrs. Sage, who by this time had seated herself in a
rocking-chair, with her rubber boots well advanced toward the stove.
“I guess you haven’t lived in this part of the country very long,” said
Mr. Gooch condescendingly.
“Oh, haven’t I? I’ve been here nearly six months—one hundred and
thirty-two days, to be exact.” She glanced at the clock on the bracket
between the windows. “Lacking two hours and twelve minutes,” she went
on. “We came down on the local that’s due here at 9:14, but it was
twenty-eight minutes late.”
“Ahem!” coughed Mr. Sage, discreetly.
“Well, if you will excuse me,” began Mrs. Gooch, withdrawing her gaze
from the lady’s boots, “I guess I’ll run upstairs and see my
sister-in-law.”
“Ain’t Serepty up there?” asked Mr. Link quickly.
“Yep,” replied Mr. Sikes. “You needn’t worry, Silas,” he added
significantly.
“You stay right here, Ida,” ordered Mr. Gooch. “I’m not going to have
you insulted by this woman they’re talking so much about. You’d think
she was Queen Victoria or somebody like that.”
“Ahem!” coughed Mr. Sage, this time in a suave, conciliatory manner—if
it is possible to cough suavely. “It is my practice, no matter what the
weather may be, to call at the earliest opportunity upon any stranger
who may arrive in our little community. Your nephew is the latest
stranger in town, I should say—eh, Mrs. Goops?”
“My—my what?”
“Gooch is my name,” broke in her husband tartly. “G, double o, c, h.”
“I do wish, Herbert dear,” said Mrs. Sage languidly, “you would try to
remember Gooch.”
“I beg pardon. A slip of the tongue. I was about to inquire about your
dear brother, Mrs. Gooch. How is he?”
“I didn’t know there was anything the matter with Oliver.”
“There isn’t anything the matter with him,” said Mrs. Sage, “that a
good, stiff drink of whiskey won’t cure.” Then catching the look in the
other woman’s eye, she explained: “Oh, I’m not a native, you know. I
come from Chicago—God bless it!”
“Ahem!” coughed her husband. “I suppose Sister Grimes will be down in a
few minutes, Joseph?”
“Just depends,” replied Mr. Sikes, somewhat grimly.
“Wonderful woman, indeed. Quite indispensable at a time like this,”
continued the minister.
“She’s just as handy at a funeral,” supplemented Mr. Link, in the hushed
voice of an undertaker.
“We must remember how indispensable Mrs. Grimes is at a time like this,
Herbert,” said Mrs. Sage, with a yawn.
“You won’t have to remember,” blurted out Mr. Sikes. “Serepty’ll do the
remembering.”
“I adore babies, don’t you, Mrs. Gooch?”
“Yes, indeed. Ah—I—how many children have you, Mrs. Sage?”
“On pleasant Sundays I should say as many as twenty-five. They shrink
quite a bit if the weather’s bad.”
“Good gracious me!”
“She means her Sunday-school class,” explained Mr. Sage hurriedly. He
had the worried manner of one who never knows what is coming next.
His wife looked up into his face and smiled—a lovely, good-humored
smile that was slowly transformed into a mischievous grimace.
“I’m always making breaks, am I not, Herby dear? It’s a terrible strain,
Mr. Gooch, being a parson’s wife. I sometimes wish that Herbert—I mean
Mr. Sage—had been a policeman or a bartender or something like that.”
“Umph!” grunted Mr. Gooch.
“Well, I suppose it ain’t as hard to live up to a policeman or a
bartender as it is to live up to a minister of the gospel,” said Mrs.
Gooch, feeling of the tip of her nose as she turned away from the stove.
Mr. Sikes and Mr. Link, having something of a private nature to say to
each other, had retired to a position near the door, which by design or
accident was pretty thoroughly blocked by their heavy figures. Mrs.
Gooch sniffed unnecessarily.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Sage over her shoulder; “you’re right, Mrs. Gooch. Live
and learn is my motto.” She winked at her husband.
“My dear Josephine!” exclaimed Mr. Sage reproachfully.
“Say, Ida,” burst out Mr. Gooch, who had been fretting almost audibly,
“I’m getting tired of hanging around here waiting for Oliver. Get your
things on. We’re going home.”
“Oh, my dear friend,” cried the pastor, “you surely are not going away
without saying good-by to Brother Baxter. He will—”
“I’m going away without even saying howdy-do to him,” rasped Mr. Gooch.
“Where are your overshoes, Ida?”
At this juncture the sitting-room door was opened, somewhat to the
confusion of the two citizens of Rumley, and a small, plump, middle-aged
woman, bearing a couple of blankets in her arms, entered the room.
“Hello, Serepty!” cried Mr. Link. “Everything all right?”
Mrs. Grimes surveyed the group. Her pleasant, wholesome face was
beaming. Her gaze rested upon the astonishing hat of Mrs. Sage.
“Why, how do you do, Sister Sage. How nice of you to come out on a night
like this. Mary will be pleased to hear you’ve been here. Oh, yes,
Silas, everything is all right. You can go home. Nobody is going to die.
How do you do, Mr. Sage. What a terrible night for you to be out, with
that wretched throat of yours. If you’ll wait till I take these blankets
out to warm them in the kitchen I will wrap a piece of flannel and a
strip of bacon around your throat. It’s the best—”
“Don’t think of it, Sister Grimes. I am quite all right. I thought
perhaps I might—ah—cheer Sister Baxter up with a little—ah—spiritual
encouragement—er—a prayer of rejoicing—er—a—”
“That’s all been attended to, thank you,” broke in Mrs. Grimes crisply.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Poor Oliver has done nothing but pray since daybreak. He’s worn himself
out with prayer. I had to go out in the hall a while ago and tell him to
shut up. Make yourselves at home, everybody. I’ll be back in—my land!”
Mr. Baxter, coatless, disheveled and in a state of extreme anguish, came
plunging down the stairs and into the room.
“Whe-where’s the doctor?” he gasped. “My God, where’s Doc Robinson? He’s
dying! Hurry up, Serepty! My infant is dying! Oh me, oh my—oh me—”
“Where is your coat, Oliver Baxter?” demanded little Mrs. Grimes,
severely. “Do you want to catch your death of cold?”
“Coat? Say, can’t you hear him? He is calling for help. Listen! Sh!
Listen, everybody.” Then after a long period of silence in which
everybody frowned and listened intently, and no sound came from aloft,
he groaned: “Oh, Lord! He’s dead! Dead as a door nail!”
“I guess it was the wind you heard, Ollie,” said Mr. Link, brightly.
For the first time, Mr. Baxter allowed his gaze to concentrate upon some
definite object. He stared at the undertaker-livery man, and his jaw
dropped lower than ever.
“The—the undertaker,” he gulped. “How—how did you get here so soon,
Silas? He ain’t been dead more than thirty seconds. He didn’t die
till—”
“Calm yourself, Oliver,” admonished Mrs. Grimes, but soothingly. “Sit
down. It’s nothing but a pin. I’ll go up to him as soon as I’ve fixed
you.” She thrust the blankets into Mr. Gooch’s arms. “Hold these,” she
said. “Come over here by the stove, Oliver. Sit down. I’ll go fix a hot
mustard bath for you to stick your feet in. Give me one of those
blankets—oh, excuse me, I didn’t notice you were a stranger. Who—”
“This is Ollie’s brother-in-law, Serepty,” explained Mr. Sikes. “Say,
Ollie, I’ve got a great surprise for you. Your sister and her husband
have come over from Hopkinsville to wish you many happy returns of the
day.”
Mr. Baxter got up from the chair into which Serepty had forced him and
shook hands with his relatives.
“You’ve—you’ve been drinking, Oliver,” exclaimed Mrs. Gooch, horrified.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if I had,” admitted Oliver. “It isn’t every day
a feller has a—Why, good evening, Mrs. Sage. I didn’t see you come in.
Where’s Mr. Sage? Ain’t he—”
“Sit down in that chair, Oliver Baxter,” commanded Mrs. Grimes. “I’m
going to wrap this blanket around you.” She relieved Mr. Gooch of one of
the blankets and proceeded to tuck Mr. Baxter snugly into the rocking
chair. “Then I’ll get the mustard bath. Now, you sit still, do you hear
me? Mary and the baby are all right. Make yourselves at home, everybody.
And you, Joe Sikes, answer the door if anybody knocks.”
She snatched the other blanket away from Gooch and hurried to the
kitchen. After an awkward pause, rendered painful by the presence of the
two Gooches, the company made a simultaneous effort to break the ice
that suddenly had clogged the flow of conversation.
“Eighteen miles through all this—”
“From your telegram we thought a death had—”
“It’s an ill wind that blows no—”
“That’s a mighty fine pair of mares you—”
“Nobody likely to knock at the—”
Young Mrs. Sage came in at the end with the following question:
“What are you going to name it, Mr. Baxter?”
“Eh? It? It ain’t an it, Mrs. Sage. It’s a masculine gender. We’re going
to call him Oliver October. Sh! Isn’t that somebody on the porch, Joe?
Doc Robinson, like as not. Go to the door, will you?”
“It’s the wind,” said Mr. Sikes. Nevertheless he went over and looked
out of the window.
Another silence, broken at last by Mr. Baxter.
“He’s got the finest head you ever saw,” said he, with a beatific
expression on his face. “Got a head like a statesman.”
“Oh, that is good news,” said the Reverend Sage, jovially. “We’re sadly
in need of statesmen these days, Brother Baxter.”
“Statesmen, your granny,” exploded Mr. Gooch, now thoroughly out of
patience. “That’s the trouble with this country. It’s being run entirely
by statesmen. That’s what I’ve been saying since March ’89. What we need
is a good, sound business man in the White House. President Harrison is
a fine lawyer, but if ever we needed a good Democrat back in the
presidential chair it’s now. Get rid of the statesmen. That’s my motto.
They’ve been—”
Mrs. Gooch touched his arm and whispered in his ear: “You mean
politicians, Horace—politicians, _not_ statesmen.”
Mr. Gooch was flabbergasted. “Consarn it, I’m always getting those two
words mixed,” he snarled. “But anyhow, this country made the blamedest
fool mistake on earth when it turned Grover Cleveland out and put these
blood-sucking Republicans back in power.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Mr. Link, witheringly.
A heated political argument ensued, Mr. Gooch holding out against the
Messrs. Link and Sikes, both of whom were what he finally succeeded in
characterizing as “black Republicans.” He also charged them with waving
the “bloody shirt,” and in return heard his party classified as “out and
out copperheads.”
Through it all, the anxious parent of Oliver October sat staring at the
bright red isinglass in the stove door, oblivious to the storm of words
that raged about him. Mrs. Sage, seated close beside him, finally
reached out and took one of his hands in hers and squeezed it
sympathetically.
“Don’t you worry,” she said gently.
He looked up, and a slow smile settled upon his homely features.
“You ought to see his feet,” he murmured. “Little bits of things about
that long. Cutest feet you ever saw.”
“I’ll bet they are,” said she warmly, and he was happier than he had
been in hours.