HE CRACKS AN OBDURATE NUT
Jason Locker, who was Sam Kettleman's rival in Coldriver's grocery
industry, was a trifle too amenable to modern ideas at times. He took
notions, as the folks said. Once he went so far as to say that he could
do anything in his store that anybody could do in a big city store and
make a success of it. He was so progressive that in the Coldriver parade
he occupied a position so advanced that it really seemed like two
parades.
Old Man Bogle and Deacon Pettybone and Elder Hooper always discussed
Locker when politics were exhausted, and their only point of difference
was as to when and exactly _how_ Jason would wind up in bankruptcy. They
were agreed that he was a bit touched in his head. He was much given to
sales. He installed a perfectly unnecessary cash carrier from the
counter to a desk where Mrs. Locker made change. He bought a case of
olives, which were viewed and tasted (free) by the village loafers, and
pronounced spoiled.... In short, there was no newfangled idea which
Jason failed to adopt, and in a matter of twenty years the town grew
accustomed to him, and tolerated him, and, as a matter of fact, was
rather proud of him as a novel lunatic. However, he prospered.
But when, on a certain Monday morning, a strange and unquestionably
pretty girl, dressed not according to Coldriver's ideas of current
fashions, made her appearance in a space cleared in the middle of the
store, and there proceeded to make and dispense tiny cups of a new
brand of coffee, the village considered that Jason had gone too far.
It is true that it came in droves to taste the coffee being
demonstrated, for it was to be had without money and without price. It
came to see what it would not believe without seeing, and regarded the
young woman with open suspicion and hostility. It wondered what manner
of young woman it could be who would harum-scarum around the country
making coffee for every Tom, Dick, and Harry, and wearing a smile for
everybody, and demeaning herself generally in a manner not heretofore
observed. It viewed and reviewed her hair, her slippers, her ankles, her
frocks, and her ornaments. The women folks, and especially the younger
women, held frequent indignation meetings, and declared for the
advisability of boycotting Locker unless he removed this menace from
their midst.
But when it noticed, not later than the second day of Miss Yvette
Hinchbrooke's career in their midst, that young Homer Locker flapped
about her like some over-grown insect about a street lamp, it took no
pains to conceal its delight and devoutly hoped for the worst.
"Looks like Providence was steppin' in," said Elder Hooper to Deacon
Pettybone. "Dunno's I ever see a more fittin' _as_ well _as_ proper
follerin' up of sinful carelessness by sich consequences as might be
expected to ensue."
"Uh-huh!... That there name of her'n. Folks differs about the way to say
it. I been holdin' out ag'in' many for Wife-ette--that way. Looks like
French or suthin' furrin. Others say it's Weev-ette. If 'twan't for
seemin' to show interest in the baggage, dummed if I wouldn't up and ask
her."
"Names don't count," said Old Man Bogle, oracularly. "She hain't to
blame for pickin' her name. Her ma gave it to her out of a book, seems
as though. Nevertheless, 'tain't no fit name for a woman, and, so fur's
I kin see, she fits her name like Ovid Nixon's tailor pants fits his
laigs."
"She's light," said the elder.
"Sh'u'dn't be s'prised," said Old Man Bogle, rolling his eyes, "if she
was one of them actoresses. Venture to say she's filled with worldly
wisdom, that gal, and that sin and cuttin' up different ways hain't
nothin' strange nor unaccustomed to her."
"While I was a-drinkin' down her coffee out of that measly leetle cup,"
said the deacon, "she was that brazen! Acted like she'd took a fancy to
me," he said, with a sprucing back of his old shoulders.
"Got all the wiles of that there woman that danced off the head of John
the Baptist," said the elder, grimly. "So she dasted even to tempt a
deacon of the church."
"She didn't tempt me none," snapped the deacon, "but I lay she was
willin'."
"I'll venture," said Old Man Bogle, with a light in his rheumy eyes,
"that she hain't no stranger to wearin' _tights._"
"Shame!" said the elder and the deacon, in a breath. And then, from the
deacon, in a tone which might have been a reflection of lofty
satisfaction in a virtue, or which might have been something quite
different, "I've read of them there tights, Elder, but I kin say with a
clear conscience that I hain't never witnessed a pair of 'em."
"My nevvy took me to a show in Boston wunst," said Old Man Bogle,
tentatively, but he was silenced immediately and sternly.
"How kin a man combat evil," he demanded, "if he hain't familiar with
the wiles of it?"
"He kin set his face to the right," said the elder, "and tread the
path."
"You wouldn't b'lieve the things I seen in that show," said Bogle,
waggling his head.
"Don't intend to be called on to b'lieve 'em," said the deacon.
"Look.... Comin' acrost the bridge. There's Locker's boy and that there
Wife-ette, and him lookin' like he'd enjoy divin' down her throat."
"Poor Jason," said the elder, "he's reapin' the whirlwind."
"Kin he be blind?"
"Somebody ought to take Jason off to one side and give him warnin'."
The deacon considered, puckering his thin lips and cocking a hard old
eye. "'Tain't fer us to meddle," he said, righteously. "They's a divine
plan in ever'thing, and we hain't able to see what's behind all this
here. We'll jest set and wait the outcome."
That is what all Coldriver did: it sat and awaited the outcome with
ill-restrained enthusiasm, and while it waited it talked. No word or
gesture or movement of young Homer Locker and Yvette Hinchbrooke went
undiscussed. Nobody in town was unaware of Homer's infatuation for the
coffee demonstrator--with the one exception of Homer's father, who was
too busy waiting upon the unaccustomed rush of trade to notice anything
else.
On the fourth evening of Yvette's stay in Coldriver there was a dance in
the town hall. Especial interest immediately attached to this affair
because of the speculations as to whether Homer would be so rash as to
invite Yvette as his partner. The village refused to believe the young
man would fail them and remain away. That would be a calamity not easily
endured, so it set itself to plan its actions in case she made her
appearance. It wondered, how she would dress and how she would behave.
Every girl in the village who possessed clear title to a young man knew
exactly how _she_ would deport herself. The night before the dance no
less than a score of young men were informed with finality that they
were not to dance with the stranger, nor to be seen in her vicinity.
Norma Grainger expressed the will of all when she told Will Peasley that
if he danced one dance with that coffee girl she would up and go home
alone. In the beginning there was no definite concerted action; it was
assured, however, that Yvette would have few partners.
Homer did not disappoint his friends. During the first dance he entered
the hall with Yvette, and the music all but stopped to stare. Undeniably
she was pretty. It was not her prettiness the women resented, however,
but her air and her clothes. Actually she wore a dress cut low at the
neck, and sleeveless. Coldriver had heard of such garments, and there
were those who actually believed them to exist and to be worn by certain
women in European society among kings and dukes and other frightfully
immoral people. But that one should ever make its appearance in
Coldriver, under their very eyes, was a thing so startling, so
outrageous, as almost to demand the spontaneous formation of a vigilance
committee.
Even yet there was no concerted action, but sentiment was crystallizing.
Homer and Yvette danced three dances, and Homer's face began to wear a
scowl. No less than five young men approached by him with the purpose of
securing them as partners for Yvette declined with brevity.
"What's the matter with you??" he demanded, belligerently. "There hain't
no pertier girl nor no better dancer on the floor."
"Mebby so. Hain't noticed. Got all _my_ dances took."
"Me too. My girl she says--"
"She says what?" snapped Homer.
"She says she'll go home if I dance with yourn."
"And _I_ say," said Homer, with set jaw, "that you fellers is goin' to
dance with Yvette, or there's goin' to be more fights in Coldriver 'n
Coldriver ever see before. That's _my_ say."
He announced he would be back after the next dance, and that _somebody_
would dance with Yvette. "The feller that refuses," said he, "goes
outside with me."
He went back to Yvette, who, not lacking in shrewdness, sensed something
of the situation.
"I wish I hadn't come," she said, uneasily.
"I don't ... if you hain't got no objection to dancin' jest with me."
"It'll look queer if I dance all of them with you."
"Jest ask me, and see if I care," he said, desperately. "It's like I'd
want to have it. I couldn't never dance more'n I want to with you. I
wisht I could dance all the dances there'll be in your life with
you.... Come on. This here's a quadrille."
Pliny Pickett, self-appointed caller of square dances, was arranging the
floor. "One more couple wanted to this end," he bellowed. "Here's two
couples a-waitin'. Don't hang back. Music's a-waitin'.... Right there.
All ready?... Nope. One couple needed in the middle."
Homer and Yvette approached that square where three couples awaited the
fourth to complete their set. They took their places, to the manifest
embarrassment of the other six. Suddenly Norma Grainger whispered
something to her young man and tugged at his arm. He looked sidewise,
sheepishly, at Homer, and hung back.
"You come right along," said Norma. "I hain't goin' to have it said of
me that I danced in no set with her."
"Nor me," said Marion Towne, also tugging at her escort.
The young men were forced to give way, and, not too proud to cast
glances of placating nature at Homer, they fell from their places and
walked to the benches around the hall. Yvette and Homer were left
standing alone, conspicuous, the center of all eyes.
Homer clenched his fists and glared about him; then--for in his ungainly
body there resided something that is essential to manhood, and without
which none may be called a gentleman--he offered his arm to Yvette. "I
guess we better go," he said, softly. Then squaring his powerful
shoulders and glancing about him with a real dignity which Scattergood
Baines, sitting in one corner, noted and applauded, he led the girl from
the room.
"I'll see you home," he said, formally. "I hain't got nothin' to say."
"It--it's not your fault," she said, tremulously.
"Somebody'll wisht it wa'n't their fault 'fore mornin'," he answered.
"I shouldn't have gone."
"Why? Hain't you as good as any of them, and better? Hain't you the
pertiest girl I ever see?... You hain't mad with _me_, be you?"
"'No.... Not with anybody, I guess. I--I ought to be used to it. I--"
She began to cry.
It was a dark spot there on the bridge. Homer was not apt at words, but
he could feel and he did feel. It was no mere impulse to comfort a
pretty girl that moved him to inclose her with his muscular arms and to
press her to him none too gently.
"I kin lick the hull world fer you," he said, huskily, and then he
kissed her wet cheek again and again, and repeated his ability to thrash
all comers in her cause, and stated his desire to undertake exactly that
task for the term of her natural life. "If you was to marry me," he
said, "they wouldn't nobody dast trample on you.... You're a-goin' to
marry me, hain't you?"
"I--I don't know.... You--you don't know anything about me."
"Calc'late I know enough," he said.
"Your folks wouldn't put up with it."
"Huh!"
There was a silence. Then she said, brokenly: "I must go away. I can't
ever go back to the store to-morrow to have everybody staring at me and
talking about me.... I want to go away to-night."
"You sha'n't. Nor no other time, neither."
And then, out of the darkness behind, spoke Scattergood Baines's voice.
"Hain't calc'latin' to bust the gal, be you?... Jest happened along to
say the deacon's been talkin' to your pa about you 'n' her, and your
pa's het up consid'able. He's startin' out to look fer you. Lucky I come
along, wa'n't it?"
"I'm of age," said Homer, aggressively.
"Lots is," said Scattergood. "'Tain't nothin' to take special pride
in.... Homer, I've watched you raised from a colt, hain't I? Be you
willin' to kind of leave this here to me a spell? I sort of want to look
into things. You go along about your business and leave me talk to
Wife-ette here.... Made up your mind you want her?"
"Yes."
"She want you?"
"I--What business is it of yours?" Yvette demanded, angrily. "Who are
you? What are you interfering for?"
"Kind of a habit with me," said Scattergood, "and my wife hain't ever
been able to cure me, even puttin' things in my coffee on the sly....
G'-by, Homer. And don't go lickin' nobody. G'-by."
The habit of obedience to Scattergood's customary dismissal was strong
in Coldriver. For more than a generation the town had been trained to
heed it and to trust its affairs to the old hardware merchant. Homer
hesitated, coughed, mumbled good night to Yvette, and slouched away.
"There," said Scattergood, "now you and me kin talk. We'll go up to your
room, where nobody kin disturb us." The conventions nor the tongue of
gossip was non-existent to Scattergood Baines, and Yvette, not reared in
a school where trust in men is easily learned, was shrewd enough to
recognize Scattergood's purpose and her own safety.
"I s'pose you're the local Mr. Fix-it," she said, with sarcasm.
"I s'pose," said Scattergood, "that I've knowed Homer sence he was knee
high to a mouse's kitten, and I don't know nothin' about you a-tall. I
gather you're calc'latin' on marryin' Homer.... Mebby you be and mebby
you hain't.... Depends. Come along."
He led the way to the hotel and allowed Yvette to precede him up the
stairs to her room, which she unlocked and stood aside for him to enter.
He looked about him in the sharp-eyed way characteristic of him, not
omitting to include in his survey the toilet articles on the dresser.
"Hain't you perty enough without them?" he asked, indicating the lip
stick and rice powder. "Us folks hain't used to 'em, much.... Wunst we
give a home-talent play here, and there come a feller from Boston to
help out. Mis' Blossom was into it, and he come around to paint her up.
She jest give him one look, and says, says she, 'I hain't never painted
my face yit, and I don't calc'late to start in now.' ... I got to admit
she looked kind of pale and peeked amongst the rest, but she stuck to
her principles."
Yvette stared at Scattergood, nonplused for the first time. What did he
mean? How was she to take him? His face was serene and there was no
glint of humor in his eye.... Yet, somehow, she gathered the idea he was
chuckling inwardly and that there resided in him a broad and tender
toleration for the little antics and makeshifts of mankind. Possibly he
was holding Mrs. Blossom up to her as a model of rectitude; perhaps he
was asking her to laugh with him at a foible of one of his own people.
She wished she knew which.
"Calc'late on marryin' Homer?" he asked.
"I--"
"Yes or no--quick."
"Yes," she said, lifting her chin bravely.
"Um!... Knowed him four days, hain't you? Think it's long enough? Plenty
of time to figger it all out?"
She sat down on the bed, drooping wearily. "I'm tired," she said, "awful
tired. I can't stand this life any longer. I've got to have a place to
rest."
"Hain't goin' to have Homer used for no sanitorium," said Scattergood.
"I like him," said Yvette.
"'Tain't enough. Up this way folks mostly loves when they git
married--or owns adjoinin' timber."
Again she was at a loss. What did he mean? If he would only smile!
"I--I've got a feeling I could _trust_ him," she said, "and he'd be good
to me."
"_He_ would," said Scattergood. "I hain't worritin' about his dealin'
with you; it's your dealin' with him I'm questionin' into."
"I'd--. He wouldn't be sorry."
"Um!... Nate Weaver, back country a spell, is lookin' fer a wife. Hain't
young. Got lots of money, and the right woman could weasel it out of
him. Lots of it.... He'd like you fine. Homer won't have much, and if
his pa keeps on feelin' like he does, he won't have none.... If you're
lookin' fer a restin' place, you might consider Nate. I could fix it."
Her eyes flashed. "I haven't come to that yet," she said, sharply, and
then began to cry quietly.
"Um!..." Scattergood gripped his pudgy hands together so that each might
restrain the other from patting her head comfortingly. "Um!... What's
your name?"
"My name?"
"Yes.... 'Tain't Wife-ette Hinchbrooke. They hain't no sich name.
'Tain't human.... What's your real one?"
"Eva Hopkins."
"How'd you come to change?"
"A girl's got a right to call herself anything she wants to," she said,
defensively.
"Except Mrs. Homer Locker," said Scattergood, dryly. "Now jest come
off'n your high hoss, and we'll talk. When we git through, we'll
_do_.... Either you'll take the mornin' train out of Coldriver, or
you'll stay and we'll see. Depends on what I hear."
"I could lie," she said.
"Folks don't gen'ally lie to _me_," said Scattergood, gently. "They
found out it didn't pay--and I hain't much give to believin' nothin' but
the truth. We deal in it a lot up this here way."
"I hate your people and their dealings."
"Don't wonder at it. I seen what they done to you to-night.... But you
don't know 'em like I do. They's times when they act cold and ha'sh and
nigh to cruel, but that hain't when they're real. Them times they're
jest makin' b'lieve, 'cause they hain't got no idee what they ought to
do.... I've knowed 'em these thirty year--right down _knowed_ 'em. Lemme
tell you they hain't a finer folks on earth, bar nobody. They don't show
much outside, but the insides is right. You kin find more kindness and
charity and long-sufferin' and tenderness and goodness right here
amongst the cantankerous-seemin' of Coldriver 'n you kin find anywheres
else on earth.... They're narrer, Eva, and they got sot notions, but
they got a power to do kindness, once you git 'em started at it, that
hain't to be beat.... I kind of calculate God hain't so disapp'inted
with the folks of Coldriver as a stranger might git the idee he is....
Now we'll go ahead."
When Scattergood had done asking questions and receiving answers, he sat
silent for a matter of moments. Automatically his hands strayed to the
lacing of his shoes, for his pudgy toes itched for freedom to wiggle. He
dealt with a problem whose complex elements were human emotions and
prejudices, and at such times he found his brain to act more clearly and
efficiently with shoes removed. He detected himself, however, in the act
of untying the laces, and sat upright with ludicrous suddenness.
"Um!..." he said, in some confusion. "Mandy says I hain't never to do it
when wimmin is around. Dunno why.... Now they's some p'ints I got to
impress on you."
"Yes, Mr. Baines," said Yvette, who had reached a condition of respect
and confidence in Scattergood--as most people did upon meeting him face
to face.
"Fust, Homer hain't no sanitorium for weary wimmin. When you kin come
and say, meanin' it from your heart, 'I love Homer,' then we'll see."
She nodded acquiescence.
"Second, it won't never and noways be possible fer you and Homer to live
here onless the folks takes to you. You got to win yourself a welcome in
Coldriver."
"That means," she said, dully, "that I'd better go."
"Huh!... Hain't you got no backbone? You do like you're told. You stay
where you be. 'Tain't possible fer you to go back to Locker's store, and
that puts you out of a job, don't it?"
"Yes."
"Hard up?"
"I can live a few days--but--"
"Hain't no buts. You kin live as long as I say so. You stay hitched to
this here hitchin' post, and I'll 'tend to the money. Jest don't do
nothin' but be where you be--and be makin' up your mind if Homer's the
boy you kin love and cherish, or if he's nothin' but a sort of shady
restin' place.... G'-by."
He got up abruptly and went out. On the bridge he encountered three dark
figures, which, upon inspection, resolved themselves into Old Man Bogle,
Deacon Pettybone, and Elder Hooper.
"Scattergood," said the elder, "somethin's happened."
"Somethin' 'most allus does."
"This here's special and horrifyin'."
"Havin' to do with what?"
"That coffee gal, that baggage, that hussy!"
"Um!... Sich as?"
"Recall that show Bogle was took to in Boston?"
"Where the wimmin wore tights--that's been on his mind ever since?
Calc'late I do. Kind of a high spot in Bogle's life. Come nigh bein' the
makin' of him."
"He claims he recognizes this here gal as one of them dancin' wimmin
that stood in a row with less on to them than any woman ever ought to
have with the lights turned on."
"No!" exclaimed Scattergood.
"Yep!" said all three of them in chorus.
"Stood right in front, as I recall it, a-makin' eyes and kickin' up her
heels that immodest you wouldn't b'lieve. Looked right at me, too. I
seen her."
"Got your money's wuth, then, didn't ye? Wa-al?"
"Suthin's got to be done."
"Sich as?"
"Riddin' the town of her."
"Go ahead and rid it, then.... G'-by."
"But we want you sh'u'd help us."
"G'-by," said Scattergood again, as he moved off ponderously into the
darkness.
The elder moved nearer Bogle and endeavored to peer into his face. "Be
you sure she's the same one?" he asked, in a confidential whisper.
"Wa-al--they was about the same heft," said Bogle, "and if this hain't
her, it ought to be. I kin b'lieve it, can't I? Got a right to b'lieve
it, hain't I? Good fer the town to b'lieve it, hain't it?"
"Calc'late 'tis."
"All right, then. I aim to keep on b'lievin' it."
Next day Homer Locker abandoned his work and with the utmost brazenness
hired a rig at the livery and drove to the hotel. A group of notables
assembled upon the bridge to watch the event. They saw him emerge from
the inn with Yvette, help her into the buggy with great solicitude, and
drive away. They did not return until supper time was long past.
"I'm determined to git this settled one way or t'other," said Homer,
after a long pause. "Be you goin' to marry me?"
"Why do you want me?" Yvette asked, fixing her eyes on his face. "Is it
just because you think I'm pretty?"
He considered. It was a hard question for a young man not adept in the
use of words to answer. "'Tain't jest that," he said, finally. "I like
you bein' perty. But it's somethin' else. I hain't able to explain it,
exceptin' that I want you more'n I ever wanted anythin' in my life."
"Maybe, when I tell you about myself, you won't want me at all."
He paused again, while she studied his face anxiously.
"I dunno.... I--. Tell ye what. I want you like I know you. I'm
satisfied. I don't want you to tell me nothin'. I don't want to know
nothin'." He turned and looked with clumsy gravity into her eyes, which
did not waver. "Besides," he said, "I don't believe you got anythin'
discreditable to tell."
"I want to tell you."
"I don't want to hear," he said, simply. "I'd rather take you, jest
trustin' you and knowin' in my heart that you're good. Somehow I _know_
it."
She bit her lip, her eyes were moist, and she sat very still for a long
time; then she said, softly: "I didn't know men like that lived.... I
didn't know."
Then again, after the passage of minutes: "I was going to marry you,
Homer, just for a home and a good man and to get peace.... But I sha'n't
do it now. I can't come between you and all your folks--and they
wouldn't have me."
"You're more to me than everybody else throwed together."
"No, Homer. Before I didn't think I cared.... I do care, Homer. I--I
love you. I don't mind saying it now.... I'm going away in the morning."
It was a point they argued all the day, but Yvette was not to be moved,
and Homer was in despair. As he drove into the village that evening,
glum and unhappy, Yvette said: "Stop at Mr. Baines's, please, Homer. I
want to speak to him."
Scattergood was in his accustomed place before his store, shoes on the
piazza beside him, and his feet, guiltless of socks, reveling in their
liberty.
"Mr. Baines," said Yvette, "I've made up my mind to go away to-morrow."
"Um!... To-morrer, eh? Made up your mind you don't want Homer, have ye?
Don't blame ye. He's a mighty humble critter."
"He's the best man in the world," said Yvette, softly, "and I love
him ... and that--that's why I'm going. I can't stay and make him
miserable."
Scattergood studied her face a moment, and cleared his throat noisily.
"Hum!... I swan to man! Goin', be ye?... Mebby that's best.... But they
hain't no sich hurry. Be out of a job, won't ye? Uh-huh! Wa-al, you stay
till Thursday mornin' and kind of visit with Homer, and say good-by, and
then you kin go. Thursday mornin'.... Not a minute before."
"But--"
"Thursday mornin's the time, I said.... G'-by."
Next morning Scattergood was absent. He had taken the early train out of
town, as Pliny Pickett reported, on a "whoppin' big deal that come up
suddin in the night." It appeared that for once Scattergood had allowed
business to distract him wholly from his favorite occupation of meddling
in other folks' affairs.... Nobody saw him return, for he drove into
town late Wednesday afternoon and went directly to his home.
For forty-eight hours during his absence rumor had spread and increased
its girth to astounding dimensions. Old Man Bogle had released his
story. He now recollected Yvette perfectly, and when not restrained by
the modesty of some person of the opposite sex, he described her costume
in the play with minute detail. Hourly he remembered more and more, and
the mouth-to-ear repetitions of his tale embellished it with details
even Old Man Bogle's imagination could not have encompassed.... Before
Wednesday night Yvette had arisen in the estimation of the village to an
eminence of evil never before attained by any visitor to Coldriver.
Jason Locker forbade his son his home if ever he were seen in the
hussy's company again, and Homer left by the front door.... He announced
his purpose of journeying to the South Seas or New York, or some other
equally strange and dangerous shore. The town seethed. It had been
years since any local sensation approached this high moment.... At half
past six Pliny Pickett, Scattergood's right-hand man and general errand
boy, was seen to approach Homer on the street and to whisper to him.
Pliny always enshrouded his most matter-of-fact errands with voluminous
mystery. "Scattergood wants you sh'u'd see him right off," he said, and
tiptoed away.
Another sensation occurred that evening. Scattergood Baines went to
prayer meeting in the Methodist church. When word of this was passed
about, the Baptists and Congos deserted their places of worship in
whispering groups and invaded the rival edifice until it was crowded as
it had seldom been before. Scattergood in prayer meeting! Scattergood,
who had never been inside a church since the day of his arrival in
Coldriver, forty years before.... Even Yvette Hinchbrooke and her
affairs sank into insignificance.
But the amazing presence of Scattergood in church was as nothing to the
epochal fact that, after the prayer and hymn, he was seen slowly to get
to his feet. Scattergood Baines was going to lift up his voice in
meeting!
"Folks," he said, "I've knowed Coldriver for quite a spell. I've knowed
its good and its bad, but the good outweighs the bad by a darn sight."
The congregation gasped.
"I run on to a case to-day," he said, and then paused, apparently
thinking better of what he was going to say and taking another course.
"They's one great way to reach folks's hearts and that's through their
sympathy. All of you give up to furrin missions to rescue naked fellers
with rings in their noses. That's sympathy, hain't it? Mebby they hain't
needin' sympathy and cast-off pants, but that's neither here nor there.
You _think_ they do.... Coldriver's great on sympathy, and it's a
doggone upstandin' quality." Again the audience sucked in its breath at
this approach to the language of everyday life.
"If I was wantin' to stir up your sympathy, I'd tell you about a leetle
feller I seen yestiddy. Mebby I will. He wa'n't no naked heathen, and he
didn't have no ring into his nose. He was jest a boy. Uh-huh! Calculate
he might 'a' been ten year old. Couldn't walk a step. Suthin' ailed his
laigs, and he had to lay around in a chair in one of these here kind of
cheap horspittles. Alone he was. Didn't have no pa nor ma.... But he had
to be looked after by somebody, didn't he? Somebody had to pay them
bills."
Scattergood blew his nose gustily. "Mebby he could 'a' been cured if
they was money to pay for costly doctorin', but they wa'n't. It took all
that could be got jest to pay for his food and keep.... Patient leetle
feller, too, and gentlelike and cheerful. Kind of took to him, I did."
He paused, turned slowly, and surveyed the congregation, and frowned at
the door of the church. He coughed. He waited. The congregation turned,
following his eyes, and saw Mandy, Scattergood's ample-bosomed wife,
enter, bearing in her arms the form of a child. She walked to
Scattergood's pew and handed the boy to him. Scattergood held the child
high, so all could see.
He was a red-haired little fellow, white and thin of face, with
pipe-stem legs that dangled pitifully.
"I fetched him along," said Scattergood. "I wisht you'd look him over."
The audience craned its neck, exclaiming, dropping tears. The heart of
Coldriver was well protected, it fancied, by an exterior of harshness
and suspicion, but Coldriver was wrong. Its heart lay near the surface,
easy of access, warm, tender, sympathetic. "This is him," said
Scattergood.
He turned his face to the child. "Sonny," he said, kindly, "you hain't
got no pa nor ma?" "No, sir," said the little fellow.
"And you live in one of them horspittles?"
"Yes, sir."
"It costs money?"
"Yes, sir."
"How do you git it, sonny? Tell the folks."
"Sister," said the child. "She's awful good to me. When she kin, she
stays whole days with me, but she can't stay much on account of havin'
to earn money to pay for me. It takes 'most all she earns.... She's had
to do kinds of work she don't like, on account of it earnin' more money
than nice jobs. We're savin' to have me cured, and then I'm goin' to go
to work and keep _her._ I got it all planned out while I was layin'
there."
"Is your sister a bad woman?"
"Nobody dast say that, even if I hain't got legs. I'd grab somethin' and
throw it at 'em."
"Was this here sister ever one of them actoresses?"
"Once, when I was sicker 'n usual ... it was awful costly. That time she
was in a show, 'cause she got more money there. She got enough to pay
for what I needed."
"Wear tights, sonny? Calc'late she wore tights?"
"Sure. She told me. She said to me it wasn't wearin' tights that done
harm, and she could be jest as good in tights as wearin' a fur coat if
her heart wasn't bad. That's what she said. Yes, sir, she said she
wouldn't wear nothin' if it had to be done to git me medicine."
"Um!... What's this here sister's name?"
"Eva Hopkins."
Scattergood turned again toward the door. "Homer," he called, and Homer
Locker entered, almost dragging Yvette by the arm.... The congregation
heard one sound. It was a glad, childish cry. "Eva!... Eva!... Here I
am."
Then it saw Yvette Hinchbrooke wrench free from Homer and run down the
aisle to snatch the child from Scattergood's arms into her own.
Scattergood stood erect, looking from face to face in silence. It was a
full minute before he spoke.
"There ..." he said. "You kin see the evil of passin' jedgments. You kin
see the evil of old coots traffickin' in rumors.... What you've heard
the boy tell is all true.... That's the girl you was ready to tar and
feather and run out of town.... Now what you think of yourselves?"
It was Deacon Pettybone, blinking a mist from his watery blue eyes, who
arose to the moment. "Folks," he said, huskily, "I'm goin' to pass among
you directly, carryin' the collection plate. 'Tain't fer furrin
missions. It's fer that child yonder--to git them legs fixed.... And
standin' here I want to acknowledge to sin in public. I been hard, and
lackin' in charity. I been passin' jedgments, contrairy to God's word. I
been stiff-backed and obdurate, and I calc'late they's others a-sittin'
here that needs prayers for forgiveness.... Now I'm a-comin' with the
plate. Them that hain't prepared to give to-night kin whisper to me what
they'll give to-morrer--and have no fear of my forgittin' the amounts
they pledge.... And I'm askin' forgiveness of the young woman and hopin'
she won't hold it ag'in' an old man--when she settles down here amongst
us, like I hope she'll do."
"Like she's a-goin' to do," said Jason Locker, with a voice and air of
pride. "Why, folks, that there gal is goin' to be my daughter-in-law!"
Scattergood patted Yvette on the back heavily, but jubilantly. "I've
diskivered," he said, "that if you can't crack a hick'ry nut with a pad
of butter, you better use a hammer.... Sometimes Coldriver's a nut
needin' a sledge--but when it cracks it's full of meat."