Late spring brought preparations for M'ri's wedding. Rhody Crabbe's
needle and fingers flew in rapturous speed, and there was likewise
engaged a seamstress from Lafferton. Rhody had begged for the making
of the wedding gown, and when it was finished David went to fetch it
home.
"It's almost done, David, and you tell M'ri the last stitch was a
loveknot. It's most a year sence you wuz here afore, a-waitin' fer her
blue waist tew be finished. Remember, don't you, David?"
He remembered, and as she stitched he sat silently reviewing that
year, the comforts received, the pleasures pursued, and, best of all,
the many things he had learned, but the recollection that a year ago
his mother had been living brought a rush of sad memories and blotted
out happier thoughts.
"I wish yer ma could hev seen Mart and M'ri merried. She was orful
disapp'inted when they broke off."
There was no reply. Rhody's sharp little eyes, in upward glance, spied
the trickling tear; she looked quickly away and stitched in furious
haste.
"But, my!" she continued, as if there had been no pause, "how glad she
would be to know 't was you as fetched it around."
David looked up, diverted and inquiring.
"Yes; I learnt it from M'ri. She told me about the flowers you give
him. I thought it was jest sweet in you, David. You done good work
thar."
"Miss Rhody," said David earnestly, "maybe some day I can get you a
sweetheart."
"'T ain't no use, David," she sighed. "No one wants a plain critter
like me."
"Lots of them don't marry for looks," argued David sagely. "Besides,
you look fine in your black silk, and your hair crimped. Joe thinks
your picture is great. He's got it on a shelf over his fireplace at
the ranch."
"Most likely some cowboy'll see it and lose his heart," laughed Miss
Rhody, "but thar, the weddin' dress is all done. You go home and quit
thinkin' about gittin' me a man. I ain't ha'nted by the thought of
endin' single."
Great preparations for the wedding progressed at the Brumble farm. For
a week Pennyroyal whipped up eggs and sugar, and David ransacked the
woods for evergreens and berries with which to decorate the big barn,
where the dance after the wedding was to take place.
The old farmhouse was filled to overflowing on the night of the
wedding. After the ceremony, Miss Rhody, resplendent in the black silk
and waving hair loosed from the crimping pins that had confined it for
two days and nights, came up to David.
"My, David, I've got the funniest all over feelin' from seein' Mart
and M'ri merried! I was orful afeerd I'd cry."
"Sit down, Miss Rhody," said David, gallantly bringing her a chair.
"Didn't M'ri look perfeckly beyewtiful?" she continued, after
accomplishing the pirouette that prevented creases. "And Mart, he
looked that proud, and solemn too. It made me think of that gal when
she spoke 'Curfew shall not ring tewnight' at the schoolhouse. Every
one looks fine. I hain't seen Barnabas so fussed up sence Libby Sukes'
funyral. It makes him look real spry. And whoever got Larimer Sasser
to perk up and put on a starched shirt!"
"I think," confided David, "that Penny got after him. She had him in a
corner when he came, and she tied his necktie so tight I was afraid
she would choke him."
"Look at old Miss Pankey, David. She, as rich as they make 'em, and
a-wearin' that old silk! It looks as ef it hed bin hung up fer you and
Jud to shoot at. Ain't she a-glarin' and a-sniffin' at me, though?
Say, David, you write Joe that if M'ri did look the purtiest of any
one that my dress cost more'n any one's here, and showed it, too. I
hope thar'll be a lot of occasions to wear it to this summer. M'ri is
a-goin' to give a reception when she gits back from her tower, and
that'll be one thing to wear it at. Ain't Jud got a mean look? He's as
crooked as a dog's hind leg. But, say, David, that's a fine suit
you're a-wearin'. You look handsome. Thar ain't a stingy hair on
Barnabas' head. He's doin' jest as good by you as he is by Jud. Don't
little Janey look like an angel in white, and them lovely beads Joe
give her? I can't think of nothin' else but that little Eva you read
me about. I shouldn't wonder a bit, David, if I come to yer and
Janey's weddin' yet!" she said, as Janey came dancing up to them.
A slow flush mounted to his forehead, but Janey laughed merrily.
"I've promised Joe I'd wait for him," she said roguishly.
"She's only foolin' and so wuz he," quickly spoke Miss Rhody, seeing
the hurt look in David's eyes. "Barnabas," she asked, stopping him as
he passed, "you air a-goin' to miss M'ri turrible. You could never
manige if it wa'n't fer Penny. Won't she hev the time of her life
cleanin' up after this weddin'? She'll enjoy it more'n she did gettin'
ready fer it."
"I hope Penny won't go to gittin' merried--not till Janey's growed
up."
"David's a great help to you, too, Barnabas."
"Dave! I don't know how I ever got along afore he came. He's so
willin' and so honest. He's as good as gold. Only fault he's got is a
quick temper. He's doin' purty fair with it, though. If only Jud--"
He stopped, with a sigh, and Rhody hastened to change the subject.
"You're a-lookin' spry to-night, Barnabas. I hain't seen you look so
spruce in a long time."
"You look mighty tasty yerself, Rhody."
This interchange of compliments was interrupted by the announcement of
supper.
"I never set down to sech a repast," thought Miss Rhody. "I'm glad I
didn't feed much to-day. I don't know whether to take chickin twice,
or to try all them meltin', flaky lookin' pies. And jest see them
layer cakes!"
After supper adjournment was made to the barn, where the fiddles were
already swinging madly. Every one caught the spirit, and even Miss
Rhody finally succumbed to Barnabas' insistence. Pennyroyal captured
Uncle Larimy, and when Janey whirled away in the arms of a
schoolmate, David, who had never learned to dance, stood isolated. He
felt lonely and depressed, and recalled the expression in which Joe
Forbes had explained life after he had acquired a stepmother. "I was
always on the edge of the fireside," he had said.
"Dave," expostulated Uncle Barnabas, as soon as he could get his
breath after the last dance, "you'd better eddicate yer heels as well
as yer head. It's unnateral fer a colt and a boy not to kick up their
heels. You don't never want to be a looker-on at nuthin' excep' from
ch'ice. You'd orter be a stand-in on everything that's a-goin' instead
of a stand-by. The stand-bys never git nowhar."
PART TWO
CHAPTER I
David Dunne at eighteen was graduated from the high school in
Lafferton after five colorless years in which study and farm work
alternated. Throughout this period he had continued to incur the
rancor of Jud, whose youthful scrapes had gradually developed into
brawls and carousals. The Judge periodically extricated him from
serious entanglements, and Barnabas continued optimistic in his
expectations of a time when Jud should "settle." On one occasion Jud
sneeringly accused David of "working the old man for a share in the
farm," and taunted him with the fact that he was big enough and strong
enough to hustle for himself without living on charity. David started
on a tramp through the woods to face the old issue and decide his
fate. He had then one more year before he could finish school and
carry out a long-cherished dream of college.
He was at a loss to know just where to turn at the present time for a
home where he could work for his board and attend school. The Judge
and M'ri had gone abroad; Joe was on his ranch; the farmers needed no
additional help.
He had been walking swiftly in unison with his thoughts, and when he
came out of the woods into the open he was only a mile downstream from
town. Upon the river bank stood Uncle Larimy, skillfully swirling his
line.
"Wanter try yer luck, Dave?"
"I have no luck just now, Uncle Larimy," replied the boy sadly.
Uncle Larimy shot him a quick, sidelong glance.
"Then move on, Dave, and chase arter it. Thar's allers luck somewhar.
Jest like fishin'. You can't set in one spot and wait for luck tew
come to you like old Zeke Foss does. You must keep a-castin'."
"I don't know where to cast, Uncle Larimy."
Uncle Larimy pondered. He knew that Jud was home, and he divined
David's trend of thought.
"You can't stick to a plank allers, Dave, ef you wanter amount tew
anything. Strike out bold, and swim without any life presarvers. You
might jest as well be a sleepy old cat in a corner as to go
smoothsailin' through life."
"I feel that I have got to strike out, and at once, Uncle Larimy, but
I don't just know where to strike."
"Wal, Dave, it's what we've all got to find out fer ourselves. It's a
leap in the dark like, and ef you don't land nowhere, take another
leap, and keep a-goin' somewhar."
David wended his way homeward, pondering over Uncle Larimy's
philosophy. When he went with Barnabas to do the milking that night he
broached the subject of leaving the farm.
"I know how Jud feels about my being here, Uncle Barnabas."
"What did he say to you?" asked the old man anxiously.
"Nothing. I overheard a part of your conversation. He is right. And if
I stay here, he will run away to sea. He told the fellows in Lafferton
he would."
"You are going to stay, Dave."
"You won't like to think you drove your son away. If he gets into
trouble, both you and I will feel we are to blame."
"Dave, I see why the Jedge hez got it all cut out fer you to be a
lawyer. You've got the argyin' habit strong. But you can't argue me
into what I see is wrong. This is the place fer you to be, and Jud 'll
hev to come outen his spell."
"Then let me go away until he does. You must give him every chance."
"Where'll you go?" asked Barnabas curiously.
"I don't know, yet," said the boy, "but I'll think out a plan
to-night."
It was Jud, after all, who cut the Gordian knot, and made one of his
welcome disappearances, which lasted until David was ready to start in
college. His savings, that he had accumulated by field work in the
summers and a very successful poultry business for six years, netted
him four hundred dollars.
"One hundred dollars for each year," he thought exultantly. "That
will be ample with the work I shall find to do."
Then he made known to his friends his long-cherished scheme of working
his way through college. The Judge laughed.
"Your four hundred dollars, David, will barely get you through the
first year. After that, I shall gladly pay your expenses, for as soon
as you are admitted to the bar you are to come into my office, of
course."
David demurred.
"I shall work my way through college," he said firmly.
He next told Barnabas of his intention and the Judge's offer which he
had declined.
"I'm glad you refused, Dave. You'll only be in his office till you're
ripe fer what I kin make you. I've larnt that the law is a good
foundation as a sure steppin' stone tew it, so you kin hev a taste of
it. But the Jedge ain't a-goin' to pay yer expenses."
"I don't mean that he shall," replied David. "I want to pay my own
way."
"I'm a-goin' to send you tew college and send you right. No starvin'
and garret plan fer you. I've let Joe and the Jedge do fer you as much
as they're a-goin' to, but you're mine from now on. It's what I'd do
fer my own son if he cared fer books, and you're as near to me ez ef
you were my son."
"It's too much, Uncle Barnabas."
"And, David," he continued, unheeding the interruption, "I hope you'll
really be my son some day."
A look of such exquisite happiness came into the young eyes that
Barnabas put out his hand silently. In the firm hand-clasp they both
understood.
"I am not going to let you help me through college, though, Uncle
Barnabas. It has always been my dream to earn my own education. When
you pay for anything yourself, it seems so much more your own than
when it's a gift."
"Let him, Barnabas," again counseled Uncle Larimy. "Folks must feed
diff'rent. Thar's the sweet-fed which must allers hev sugar, but
salt's the savor for Dave. He's the kind that flourishes best in the
shade."
Janey wrote to Joe of David's plan, and there promptly came a check
for one thousand dollars, which David as promptly returned.
CHAPTER II
A few days before the time set for his departure David set out on a
round of farewell visits to the country folk. It was one of those
cold, cheerless days that intervene between the first haze of autumn
and the golden glow of October. He had never before realized how
lonely the shiver of wind through the poplars could sound. Two
innovations had been made that day in the country. The rural delivery
carrier, in his little house on wheels, had made his first delivery,
and a track for the new electric-car line was laid through the sheep
meadow. This inroad of progress upon the sanctity of their seclusion
seemed sacrilegious to David, who longed to have lived in the olden
time of log houses, with their picturesque open fires and candle
lights. Following some vague inward call, he went out of his way to
ride past the tiny house he had once called home, and which in all his
ramblings he had steadfastly avoided. He had heard that the place had
passed into the hands of a widow with an only son, and that they had
purchased surrounding land for cultivation. He had been glad to hear
this, and had liked to fancy the son caring for his mother as he
himself would have cared for his mother had she lived.
As he neared the little nutshell of a house his heart beat fast at the
sight of a woman pinning clothes to the line. Her fingers, stiff and
swollen, moved slowly. The same instinct that had guided him down this
road made him dismount and tie his horse. The old woman came slowly
down the little path to meet him.
"I am David Dunne," he said gently, "and I used to live here. I wanted
to come to see my old home once more."
He thought that the dim eyes gazing into his were the saddest he had
ever beheld.
"Yes," she replied, with the slow, German accent, "I know of you. Come
in."
He followed her into the little sitting room, which was as barren of
furnishings as it had been in the olden days.
"Sit down," she invited.
He took a chair opposite a cheap picture of a youth in uniform. A flag
of coarse material was pinned above this portrait, and underneath was
a roughly carved bracket on which was a glass filled with goldenrod.
"You lived here with your mother," she said musingly, "and she was
taken. I lived here with my son, and--he was taken."
"Oh!" said David. "I did not know--was he--"
His eyes sought the picture on the wall.
"Yes," she replied, answering his unspoken question, as she lifted her
eyes to her little shrine, "he enlisted and went to the Philippines.
He died there of fever more than a year ago."
David was silent. His brown, boyish hand shaded his eyes. It had been
his fault that he had not heard of this old woman and the loss of her
son. He had shrunk from all knowledge and mention of this little home
and its inmates. The country folk had recognized and respected his
reticence, which to people near the soil seems natural. This had been
the only issue in his life that he had dodged, and he was bitterly
repenting his negligence. In memory of his mother, he should have
helped the lonely old woman.
"You were left a poor, helpless boy," she continued, "and I am left a
poor, helpless old woman. The very young and the very old meet in
their helplessness, yet there is hope for the one--nothing for the
other."
"Yes, memories," he suggested softly, "and the pride you feel in his
having died as he did."
"There is that," she acknowledged with a sigh, "and if only I could
live on here in this little place where we have been so happy! But I
must leave it."
"Why?" asked David quickly.
"After my Carl died, things began to happen. When once they do that,
there is no stopping. The bank at the Corners failed, and I lost my
savings. The turkeys wandered away, the cow died, and now there's the
mortgage. It's due to-morrow, and then--the man that holds it will
wait no longer. So it is the poorhouse, which I have always
dreaded."
David's head lifted, and his eyes shone radiantly as he looked into
the tired, hopeless eyes.
"Your mortgage will be paid to-morrow, and--Don't you draw a pension
for your son?"
She looked at him in a dazed way.
"No, there is no pension--I--"
"Judge Thorne will get you one," he said optimistically, as he rose,
ready for action, "and how much is the mortgage?"
"Three hundred dollars," she said despairingly.
"Almost as much as the place is worth. Who holds the mortgage?"
"Deacon Prickley."
"You see," said David, trying to speak casually, "I have three hundred
dollars lying idle for which I have no use. I'll ride to town now and
have the Judge see that the place is clear to you, and he will get you
a pension, twelve dollars a month."
The worn, seamed face lifted to his was transfigured by its look of
beatitude.
"You mustn't," she implored. "I didn't know about the pension. That
will keep me, and I can find another little place somewhere. But the
money you offer--no! I have heard how you have been saving to go
through school."
He smiled.
"Uncle Barnabas and the Judge are anxious to pay my expenses at
college, and--you _must_ let me. I would like to think, don't you see,
that you are living here in my old home. It will seem to me as if I
were doing it for _my_ mother--as I would want some boy to do for her
if she were left--and it's my country's service he died in. I would
rather buy this little place for you, and know that you are living
here, than to buy anything else in the world."
The old face was quite beautiful now.
"Then I will let you," she said tremulously. "You see, I am a
hard-working woman and quite strong, but folks won't believe that,
because I am old; so they won't hire me to do their work, and they say
I should go to the poorhouse. But to old folks there's nothing like
having your own things and your own ways. They get to be a part of
you. I was thinking when you rode up that it would kill me not to see
the frost on the old poplar, and not to cover up my geraniums on the
chill nights."
Something stirred in David's heart like pain. He stooped and kissed
her gently. Then he rode away, rejoicing that he had worked to this
end. Four hours later he rode back to the little home.
"The Judge has paid over the money to Old Skinflint Prickley," he said
blithely, "and the place is all yours. The deacon had compounded the
interest, which is against the laws of the state, so here are a few
dollars to help tide you over until the Judge gets the pension for
you."
"David," she said solemnly, "an old woman's prayers may help you, and
some day, when you are a great man, you will do great deeds, but none
of them will be as great as that which you have done to-day."
David rode home with the echo of this benediction in his ears. He had
asked the Judge to keep the transaction secret, but of course the
Judge told Barnabas, who in turn informed Uncle Larimy.
"I told the boy when his ma died," said Uncle Larimy, "that things go
'skew sometimes, but that the sun would shine. The sun will allers be
a-shinin' fer him when he does such deeds as this."
CHAPTER III
The fare to his college town, his books, and his tuition so depleted
David's capital of one hundred dollars that he hastened to deposit the
balance for an emergency. Then he set about to earn his "keep," as he
had done in the country, but there were many students bent on a
similar quest and he soon found that the demand for labor was exceeded
by the supply.
Before the end of the first week he was able to write home that he had
found a nice, quiet lodging in exchange for the care of a furnace in
winter and the trimming of a lawn in other seasons, and that he had
secured a position as waiter to pay for his meals; also that there was
miscellaneous employment to pay for his washing and incidentals.
He didn't go into details and explain that the "nice quiet lodging"
was a third-floor rear whose gables gave David's six feet of length
but little leeway. It was quiet because the third floor was not
heated, and its occupants therefore stayed away as much as possible.
His services as waiter were required only at dinner time, in exchange
for which he received that meal. His breakfast and luncheon he
procured as best he could; sometimes he dispensed with them entirely.
Crackers, milk, and fruit, as the cheapest articles of diet, appeared
oftenest on his menu. Sometimes he went fishing and surreptitiously
smuggled the cream of the catch up to his little abode, for Mrs.
Tupps' "rules to roomers," as affixed to the walls, were explicit: "No
cooking or washing allowed in rooms." But Mrs. Tupps, like her fires,
was nearly always out, for she was a member of the Woman's Relief
Corps, Ladies' Aid, Ladies' Guild, Woman's League, Suffragette
Society, Pioneer Society, and Eastern Star. At the meetings of these
various societies she was constant in attendance, so in her absence
her roomers "made hay," as David termed it, cooking their provender
and illicitly performing laundry work in the bathtub. Still, there
must always be "on guard" duty, for Mrs. Tupps was a stealthy stalker.
One saw her not, but now and then there was a faint rustle on the
stair. David's eyes and ears, trained to keenness, were patient and
vigilant, so he was generally chosen as sentinel, and he acquired new
caution, adroitness, and a quietness of movement.
There had been three or four close calls. Once, she had knocked at
his door as he was in the act of boiling eggs over the gas jet. In
the twinkling of an eye the saucepan was thrust under the bed, and
David, sweet and serene of expression, opened the door to the
inquisitive-eyed Tupps.
"I came to borrow a pen," she said shamelessly, her eyes penetrating
the cracks and crevices of the little room.
David politely regretted that he used an indelible pencil and
possessed no pens.
In the act of removing all records and remains of feasts, David became
an adept. Neat, unsuspicious looking parcels were made and conveyed,
after retiring hours, to a near-by vacant lot, where once had been
visible an excavation for a cellar, but this had been filled to street
level with tin cans, paper bags, butter bowls, cracker cases, egg
shells, and pie plates from the House of Tupps.
His miscellaneous employment, mentioned in his letter, was any sort of
work he could find to do.
David became popular with professors by reason of his record in
classes and the application and concentration he brought to his
studies. His prowess in all sports, his fairness, and the spirit of
_camaraderie_ he always maintained with his associates, made him a
general favorite. He wore fairly good clothes, was well groomed, and
always in good spirits, so of his privations and poverty only one or
two of those closest to him were even suspicious. He was entirely
reticent on the subject, though open and free in all other discourse,
and permitted no encroachment on personal matters. One or two chance
offenders intuitively perceived a slight but impassable barrier.
"Dunne has grown a little gaunt-eyed since he first came here," said
one of his chosen friends to a classmate one evening. "He's outdoors
enough to counteract overstudy. But do you suppose he has enough to
eat? So many of these fellows live on next to nothing."
"I shouldn't be surprised if he were on rations. You know he always
makes some excuse when we invite him to a spread. He's too proud to
accept favors and not reciprocate, I believe."
David overheard these remarks, and a very long walk was required to
restore his serenity. During this walk he planned to get some extra
work that would insure him compensation requisite to provide a modest
spread so that he might allay their suspicions. Upon his return to his
lodgings he found an enormous box which had come by express from
Lafferton. It contained Pennyroyal's best culinary efforts; also four
dozen eggs, a two-pound pat of butter, coffee, and a can of cream.
He propitiated Mrs. Tupps by the proffer of a dozen of the eggs and
told her of his desire to entertain his friends. It would be
impossible to do this in his room, for when he lay in bed he could
touch every piece of furniture with but little effort.
David had become his landlady's confidant and refuge in time of
trouble, and she was willing to allow him the privilege of the dining
room.
"I am going away to-night for a couple of days, but I would rather you
wouldn't mention it to the others. You may have the use of the dining
room and the dishes."
David's friends were surprised to receive an off-hand invitation from
him to "drop in for a little country spread." They were still more
surprised when they beheld the long table with its sumptuous array of
edibles,--raised biscuits, golden butter, cold chicken, pickles,
jelly, sugared doughnuts, pork cake, gold and silver cake, crullers,
mince pie, apple pie, cottage cheese, cider, and coffee.
"It looks like a county fair exhibit, Dunne," said a city-bred chap.
Six healthy young appetites did justice to this repast and insured
David's acceptance of five invitations to dine. It took Mrs. Tupps and
David fully a week to consume the remnants of this collation. The eggs
he bestowed upon an anemic-faced lodger who had been prescribed a milk
and egg diet, but with eggs at fifty cents a dozen he had not filled
his prescription.
[Illustration: "_David's friends were surprised to receive an off-hand
invitation
from him to 'drop in for a little country spread'_"]
At the end of the college year David went back to the farm, and a snug
sense of comfort and a home-longing filled him at the sight of the old
farmhouse, its lawn stretching into gardens, its gardens into
orchards, orchards into meadows, and meadows into woodlands. Through
the long, hot summer he tilled the fields, and invested the proceeds
in clothes and books for the ensuing year.
There followed three similar years of a hand-to-mouth existence, the
privations of which he endured in silence. There were little
occasional oases, such as boxes from Pennyroyal, or extra revenue now
and then from tutoring, but there were many, many days when his
healthy young appetite clamored in vain for appeasement. On such days
came the temptation to borrow from Barnabas the money to finish his
course in comfort, but the young conqueror never yielded to this
enticement. He grew stronger and sturdier in spirit after each
conflict, but lost something from his young buoyancy and elasticity
which he could never regain. His struggles added a touch of grimness
to his old sense of humor, but when he was admitted to the bar he was
a man in courage, strength, and endurance.
CHAPTER IV
It seemed to David, when he was at the farm again, that in his absence
time had stood still, except with Janey. She was a slender slip of a
girl, gentle voiced and soft hearted. Her eyes were infinitely blue
and lovely, and there was a glad little ring in her voice when she
greeted "Davey."
M'ri gave a cry of surprised pleasure when she saw her former charge.
He was tall, lithe, supple, and hard-muscled. His face was not very
expressive in repose, but showed a quiet strength when lighted by the
keenness of his serious, brown eyes and the sweetness of his smile.
His color was a deep-sea tan.
"It seems so good to be alive, Aunt M'ri. I thought I was weaned away
from farm life until I bit into one of those snow apples from the old
tree by the south corner of the orchard. Then I knew I was home."
Pennyroyal shed her first visible tear.
"I am glad you are home again, David," she sniffed. "You were always
such a clean boy."
"I missed you more'n any one did, David," acknowledged Miss Rhody. "Ef
I hed been a Catholic I should a felt as ef the confessional hed been
took from me. I ain't hed no one to talk secret like to excep' when
Joe comes onct a year. He ain't been fer a couple of years, either,
but he sent me anuther black dress the other day--silk, like the last
one. To think of little Joe Forbes a-growin' up and keepin' me in silk
dresses!"
"I'll buy your next one for you," declared David emphatically.
The next day after his return from college David started his legal
labors under the watchful eye of the Judge. He made a leap-frog
progress in acquiring an accurate knowledge of legal lore. He worked
and waited patiently for the Judge's recognition of his readiness to
try his first case, and at last the eventful time came.
"No; there isn't the slightest prospect of his winning it," the Judge
told his wife that night.
"The prosecution has strong evidence, and we have nothing--barely a
witness of any account."
"Then the poor man will be convicted and David will gain no glory,"
lamented M'ri. "It means so much to a young lawyer to win his first
case."
The Judge smiled.
"Neither of them needs any sympathy. Miggs ought to have been sent
over the road long ago. David's got to have experience before he gains
glory."
"How did you come to take such a case?" asked M'ri, for the Judge was
quite exclusive in his acceptance of clients.
"It was David's doings," said the Judge, with a frown that had a smile
lurking behind it.
"Why did he wish you to take the case?" persisted M'ri.
"As near as I can make out," replied the Judge, with a slight
softening of his grim features, "it was because Miggs' wife takes in
washing when Miggs is celebrating."
M'ri walked quickly to the window, murmuring some unintelligible sound
of endearment.
On the day of the summing-up at the trial the court room was crowded.
There were the habitual court hangers on, David's country friends _en
masse_, a large filling in at the back of the representatives of the
highways and byways, associates of the popular wrongdoer, and the
legal lore of the town, with the good-humored patronage usually
bestowed by the profession on the newcomer to their ranks.
As the Judge had said, his client was conceded to be slated for
conviction. If he had made the argument himself he would have made it
in his usual cool, well-poised manner. But David, although he knew
Miggs to be a veteran of the toughs, felt sure of his innocence in
this case, and he was determined to battle for him, not for the sake
of justice alone, but for the sake of the tired-looking washerwoman he
had seen bending over the tubs. This was an occupation she had to
resort to only in her husband's times of indulgence, for he was a wage
earner in his days of soberness.
When David arose to speak it seemed to the people assembled that the
coil of evidence, as reviewed by the prosecutor in his argument, was
drawn too closely for any power to extricate the victim.
At the first words of the young lawyer, uttered in a voice of winning
mellowness, the public forgot the facts in the case. Swayed by the
charm of David's personality, a current of new-born sympathy for the
prisoner ran through the court room.
David came up close to the jury and, as he addressed them, he seemed
to be oblivious of the presence of any one else in the room. It was as
though he were telling them, his friends, something he alone knew, and
that he was sure of their belief in his statements.
"For all the world," thought M'ri, listening, "as he used to tell
stories when he was a boy. He'd fairly make you believe they were
true."
To be sure the jury were all his friends; they had known him when
he was little "barefoot Dave Dunne." Still, they were captivated by
this new oratory, warm, vivid, and inspiring, delivered to the
accompaniment of dulcet and seductive tones that transported them
into an enchanted world. Their senses were stirred in the same way
they would be if a flag were unfurled.
"Sounds kind o' like orgin music," whispered Miss Rhody.
Yet underneath the eloquence was a logical simplicity, a keen sifting
of facts, the exposure of flaws in the circumstantial evidence. There
was a force back of what he said like the force back of the
projectile. About the form of the hardened sinner, Miggs, David
drew a circle of innocence that no one ventured to cross. Simply,
convincingly, and concisely he summed up, with a forceful appeal to
their intelligence, their honor, and their justice.
The reply by the assistant to the prosecutor was perfunctory and
ineffective. The charge of the judge was neutral. The jury left the
room, and were out eight and one-quarter minutes. As they filed in,
the foreman sent a triumphant telepathic message to David before he
quietly drawled out:
"Not guilty, yer Honor."
The first movement was from Mrs. Miggs. And she came straight to
David, not to the jury.
"David," said the Judge, who had cleared his throat desperately and
wiped his glasses carefully, at the look in the eyes of the young
lawyer when they had rested on the defendant's wife, "hereafter our
office will be the refuge for all the riffraff in the country."
This was his only comment, but the Judge did not hesitate to turn over
any case to him thereafter.
When David had added a few more victories to his first one, Jud made
one of his periodical diversions by an offense against the law which
was far more serious in nature than his previous misdeeds had been.
M'ri came out to the farm to discuss the matter.
"Barnabas, Martin thinks you had better let the law take its course
this time. He says it's the only procedure left untried to reform Jud.
He is sure he can get a light sentence for him--two years."
"M'ri," said Barnabas, in a voice vibrating with reproach, "do you
want Jud to go to prison?"
M'ri paled.
"I want to do what is best for him, Barnabas. Martin thinks it will be
a salutary lesson."
"I wonder, M'ri," said Barnabas slowly, "if the Judge had a son of his
own, he would try to reform him by putting him behind bars."
"Oh, Barnabas!" protested M'ri, with a burst of tears.
"He's still my boy, if he is wild, M'ri."
"But, Barnabas, Martin's patience is exhausted. He has got him out of
trouble so many times--and, oh, Barnabas, he says he won't under any
circumstances take the case! He is ashamed to face the court and jury
with such a palpably guilty client. I have pleaded with him, but I
can't influence him. You know how set he can be!"
"Wal, there are other lawyers," said Barnabas grimly.
[Illustration: "_He kept his word. Jud was cleared_"]
David had remained silent and constrained during this conversation,
the lines of his young face setting like steel. Suddenly he left the
house and paced up and down in the orchard, to wrestle once more with
the old problem of his boyhood days. It was different now. Then it had
been a question of how much he must stand from Jud for the sake of the
benefits bestowed by the offender's father. Now it meant a sacrifice
of principle. He had made his boyish boast that he would defend only
those who were wrongfully accused. To take this case would be to bring
his wagon down from the star. Then suddenly he found himself disposed
to arraign himself for selfishly clinging to his ideals.
He went back into the house, where M'ri was still tearfully arguing
and protesting. He came up to Barnabas.
"I will clear Jud, if you will trust the case to me, Uncle Barnabas."
Barnabas grasped his hand.
"Bless you, Dave, my boy," he said. "I wanted you to, but Jud has
been--wal, I didn't like to ask you."
"David," said M'ri, when they were alone, "Martin said you wouldn't
take a case where you were convinced of the guilt of the client."
"I shall take this case," was David's quiet reply.
"Really, David, Martin thinks it will be best for Jud--"
"I don't want to do what is best for Jud, Aunt M'ri, I want to do what
is best for Uncle Barnabas. It's the first chance I ever had to do
anything for him."
When Judge Thorne found that David was determined to defend Jud, he
gave him some advice:
"You must get counter evidence, if you can, David. If you have any
lingering idea that you can appeal to the jury on account of Barnabas
being Jud's father, root out that idea. There's no chance of rural
juries tempering justice with mercy. With them it's an eye for an eye,
every time."
David had an infinitely harder task in clearing Jud than he had had in
defending Miggs. The evidence was clear, the witnesses sure and wary,
and the prisoner universally detested save by his evil-minded
companions, but these obstacles brought out in full force all David's
indomitable will and alertness. He tipped up and entrapped the
prosecution's witnesses with lightning dexterity. One of them chanced
to be a man whom David had befriended, and he aided him by replying
shrewdly in Jud's favor.
But it was Jud himself who proved to be David's trump card. He was
keen, crafty, and quick to seize his lawyer's most subtle suggestions.
His memory was accurate, and with David's steering he avoided all
traps set for him on cross examination. When David stood before the
jury for the most stubborn fight he had yet made, his mother's last
piece of advice--all she had to bequeath to him--permeated every
effort. He put into his argument all the compelling force within him.
There were no ornate sentences this time, but he concentrated his
powers of logic and persuasiveness upon his task. The jury was out two
hours, during which time Barnabas and Jud sat side by side, pale and
anxious, but upheld by David's confident assurance of victory.
He kept his word. Jud was cleared.
"You're a smart lawyer, Dave," commented Uncle Larimy.
David looked at him whimsically.
"I had a smart client, Uncle Larimy."
"That's what you did, Dave, but he's gettin' too dernd smart. You'd a
done some of us a favor if you'd let him git sent up."
CHAPTER V
"Dave," said Barnabas on one memorable day, "the Jedge hez hed his
innings trying to make you a lawyer. Now it's my turn."
"All right, Uncle Barnabas, I am ready."
"Hain't you hed enough of law, Dave? You've given it a good trial, and
showed what you could do. It'll be a big help to you to know the law,
and it'll allers be sumthin' to fall back on when things get slack,
but ain't you pinin' fer somethin' a leetle spryer?"
"Yes, I am," was the frank admission. "I like the excitement attending
a case, and the fight to win, but it's drudgery between times--like
soldiering in time of peace."
"Wal, Dave, I've got a job fer you wuth hevin', and one that starts
toward what you air a-goin' to be."
David's breath came quickly.
"What is it?"
"Thar's no reason at all why you can't go to legislatur' and make new
laws instead of settin' in the Jedge's office and larnin' to dodge old
ones. I'm a-runnin' politics in these parts, and I'm a-goin' to git
you nominated. After that, you'll go the hull gamut--so 't will be up
the ladder and over the wall fer you, Dave."
So, David, to the astonishment of the Judge, put his foot on the
first round of the political ladder as candidate for the legislature.
At the same time Janey returned from the school in the East, where
she had been "finished," and David's heart beat an inspiring
tattoo every time he looked at her, but he was nominated by a
speech-loving, speech-demanding district, and he had so many
occasions for oratory that only snatches of her companionship were
possible throughout the summer.
Joe came on to join in the excitement attending the campaign. It had
been some time since his last visit, and he scarcely recognized David
when he met him at the Lafferton station.
"Well, Dave," said the ranchman, "if you are as strong and sure as you
look, you won't need my help in the campaign."
"I always need you, Joe. But you haven't changed in the least, unless
you look more serious than ever, perhaps."
"It's the outdoor life does that. Take a field-bred lad, he always
shies a bit at people."
"Your horse does, too, I notice. He arrived safely a week ago, and I
put him up at the livery here in Lafferton. I was afraid he would
demoralize all the horses at the farm."
"Good! I'll ride out this evening. I have a little business to attend
to here in town, and I want to see the Judge and his wife, of
course."
When the western sky line gleamed in crimson glory Joe came riding at
a long lope up the lane. He sat his spirited horse easily, one leg
thrown over the horn of his saddle. As he neared the house, a
thrashing machine started up. The desert-bred horse shied, and
performed maneuvers terrifying to Janey, but Joe in the saddle was
ever a part of the horse. Quietly and impassively he guided the
frightened animal until the machine was passed. Then he slid from the
horse and came up to Janey and David, who were awaiting his coming.
"This can never be little Janey!" he exclaimed, holding her hand
reverently.
"I haven't changed as much as Davey has," she replied, dimpling.
"Oh, yes, you have! You are a woman. David is still a boy, in spite of
his six feet."
"You don't know about Davey!" she said breathlessly. "He has won all
kinds of law cases, and he is going to the legislature."
Joe laughed.
"I repeat, he is still a boy."
On the morrow David started forth on a round of speech making,
canvassing the entire district. He returned at the wane of October's
golden glow for the round-up, as Joe termed the finish of the
campaign. The flaunting crimson of the maples, the more sedate tinge
of the oaks, the vivid yellow of the birches, the squashes piled up on
the farmhouse porches, and the fields filled with pyramidal stacks of
cornstalks brought a vague sense of loneliness as he rode out from
Lafferton to the farm. He left his horse at the barn and came up to
the house through the old orchard as the long, slanting rays of
sunlight were making afternoon shadows of all who crossed their path.
He found Janey sitting beneath their favorite tree. An open book lay
beside her. She was gazing abstractedly into space, with a new look in
her star-like eyes.
David's big, untouched heart gave a quick leap. He took up the book
and with an exultant little laugh discovered that it was a book of
poems! Janey, who could never abide fairy stories, reading poetry!
Surprised and embarrassed, after a shy greeting she hurried toward the
house, her cheeks flaming. Something very beautiful and breath-taking
came into David's thoughts at that moment.
He was roused from his beatific state by the approach of Barnabas, so
he was obliged to concentrate his attention on giving a resume of his
tour. Then the Judge telephoned for him to come to his office, and he
was unable to finish his business there until dusk. The night was
clear and frost touched. He left his horse in the lane and walked up
to the house. As he came on to the porch he looked in through the
window. The bright fire on the hearth, the soft glow of the shaded
lamp, and the fair-haired girl seated by a table, needlework in hand,
gave him a hunger for a hearth of his own.
Suddenly the scene shifted. Joe came in from the next room. Janey rose
to her feet, a look of love lighting her face as she went to the arms
outstretched to receive her.
CHAPTER VI
David went back to Lafferton. The little maid informed him that the
Judge and his wife were out for the evening; but there was always a
room in readiness for him, so he sat alone by the window, staring into
the lighted street, trying to comprehend that Janey was not for him.
It was late the next morning when he came downstairs.
"I am glad, David, you decided to stay here last night," said M'ri,
whose eyes were full of a yearning solicitude.
She sat down at the table with him while he drank his coffee.
"David."
She spoke in a desperate tone, that caused him to glance keenly at
her.
"If you have anything to tell," he said quietly, "it's a good plan to
tell it at once."
"Since you have been away Joe and Janey have been together
constantly. It seems to have been a case of mutual love. David, they
are engaged."
"So," he said gravely, "I am to lose my little sister. Joe is a man in
a thousand."
"But, David, I had set my heart on Janey's marrying you, from that
very first day when you went to school together and you carried her
books. Do you remember?"
"Yes," he replied whimsically, "but even then Joe met us and took her
away from me. But I must drive out and congratulate them."
M'ri gazed after him in perplexity as he left the house.
"I wonder," she mused, "if I ever quite understood David!"
Miss Rhody called to David as he was passing her house and bade him
come in.
"You've hed a hard trip," she said, with a keen glance into his tired,
boyish eyes.
"Very hard, Miss Rhody."
"You have heard about Janey--and Joe?"
"Aunt M'ri just told me," he said, wincing ever so slightly.
"They was all sot on your being her sweetheart, except me and her--and
Joe."
"Why not you, Miss Rhody?"
"You ain't never been in love with Janey--not the way you'll love some
day. When I was sick last fall Almiry Green come over to read to me
and she brung a book of poems. I never keered much for po'try, and
Almiry, she didn't nuther, but she hed jest ketched Widower Pankey,
and so she thought it was proper to be readin' po'try. She read
somethin' about fust love bein' a primrose, and a-fallin' to make way
fer the real rose, and I thought to myself: 'That's David. His feelin'
fer Janey is jest a primrose.'"
David's eyes were inscrutable, but she continued:
"I knowed she hed allers fancied Joe sence she was a little tot and he
give her them beads. When Joe's name was spoke she was allers
shy-like. She wuz never shy-like with you."
"No," admitted David wearily, "but I must go on to the farm now, Miss
Rhody. I will come in again soon."
When he came into the sitting room of the farmhouse, where he found
Joe and Janey, the rare smile that comes with the sweetness of
renunciation was on his lips. After he had congratulated them, he
asked for Barnabas.
"He just started for the woods," said Joe. "I think he is on his way
to Uncle Larimy's."
David hastened to overtake him, and soon caught sight of the bent
figure walking slowly over the stubbled field.
"Uncle Barnabas!" he called.
Barnabas turned and waited.
"Did you see Janey and Joe?" he asked, looking keenly into the
shadowed eyes.
"Yes; Aunt M'ri had told me."
"When?"
"This morning. Joe's a man after your own heart, Uncle Barnabas."
"It's you I wanted fer her," said the old man bluntly. "I never dreamt
of its bein' enybody else. It's an orful disapp'intment to me, Dave.
I'd ruther see you her man than to see you what I told you long ago I
meant fer you to be."
"And I, too, Uncle Barnabas," said David, with slow earnestness,
"would rather be your son than to be governor of this state!"
"You did care, then, David," said the old man sadly. "It don't seem to
be much of a surprise to you."
"Uncle Barnabas, I will tell you something which I want no one else to
know. I came back last evening and drove out here. I looked in the
window, and saw her as she sat at work. It came into my heart to go in
then and ask her to marry me, instead of waiting until after election
as I had planned. Then Joe came in and she--went to him. I returned to
Lafferton. It was daylight before I had it out with myself."
"Dave! I thought I knew you better than any of them. It's been a purty
hard test, but you won't let it spile your life?"
"No, I won't, Uncle Barnabas. I owe it to you, if not to myself, to go
straight ahead as you have mapped it out for me."
"Bless you, Dave! You're the right stuff!"
PART THREE
CHAPTER I
In January David took his seat in the House of Representatives, of
which he was the youngest member. It was not intended by that august
body that he should take any role but the one tacitly conceded to him
of making silver-tongued oratory on the days when the public would
crowd the galleries to hear an all-important measure, the "Griggs
Bill," discussed. The committee were to give him the facts and the
general line of argument, and he was to dress it up in his fantastic
way. They were entirely willing that he should have the applause from
the public as well as the credit of the victory; all they cared for
was the certainty of the passage of the bill.
David's cool, lawyer-like mind saw through all these manipulations and
machinations even if he were only a political tenderfoot. As other
minor measures came up he voted for or against them as his better
judgment dictated, but all his leisure hours were devoted to the
investigation and study of the one big bill which was to be rushed
through at the end of the session. He pored over the status of the
law, found out the policies and opinions of other states on the
subject, and listened attentively to all arguments, but he never took
part in the discussions and he was very guarded in giving an
expression of his views, an attitude which pleased the promoters of
the bill until it began to occur to them that his caution came from
penetration into their designs and, perhaps, from intent to thwart
them.
"He has ketched on," mournfully stated an old-timer from the third
district. "I'm allers mistrustful of these young critters. They are
sure to balk on the home stretch."
"Well, one good thing," grinned a city member, "it breaks their
record, and they don't get another entry."
David had made a few short speeches on some of the bills, and those
who had read in the papers of the wonderful powers of oratory of the
young member from the eleventh flocked to hear him. They were
disappointed. His speeches were brief, forceful, and logical, but
entirely barren of rhetorical effect. The promoters of the Griggs Bill
began to wonder, but concluded he was saving all his figures of speech
to sugarcoat their obnoxious measure. It occurred to them, too, that
if by chance he should oppose them his bare-handed way of dealing with
subterfuges and his clear presentation of facts would work harm. They
counted, however, on being able to convince him that his future status
in the life political depended upon his cooperation with them in
pushing this bill through.
Finally he was approached, and then the bomb was thrown. He quietly
and emphatically told them he should fight the bill, single handed if
necessary. Recriminations, arguments, threats, and inducements--all
were of no avail.
"Let him hang himself if he wants to," growled one of the committee.
"He hasn't influence enough to knock us out. We've got the
majority."
The measure was one that would radically affect the future interests
of the state, and was being watched and studied by the people, who had
not, as yet, however, realized its significance or its far-reaching
power. The intent of the promoters of the Griggs Bill was to leave the
people unenlightened until it should have become a law.
"Dunne won't do us any harm," argued the father of the bill on the
eventful day. "He's been saving all his skyrockets for this
celebration. He'll get lots of applause from the women folks," looking
up at the solidly packed gallery, "and his speech will be copied in
all the papers, and that'll be the reward he's looking for."
When David arose to speak against the Griggs Bill he didn't look the
youngster he had been pictured. His tall, lithe, compelling figure was
drawn to its full height. His eyes darkened to intensity with the
gravity of the task before him; the stern lines of his mouth bespoke
a master of the situation and compelled confidence in his knowledge
and ability.
The speech delivered in his masterful voice was not so much in
opposition to the bill as it was an exposure of it. He bared it
ruthlessly and thoroughly, but he didn't use his youthful hypnotic
periods of persuasive eloquence that had been wont to sway juries and
to creep into campaign speeches. His wits had been sharpened in the
last few months, and his keen-edged thrusts, hurled rapier-like,
brought a wince to even the most hardened of veteran members. It was a
complete enlightenment in plain words to a plain people--a concise and
convincing protest.
When he finished there was a tempest of arguments from the other side,
but there was not a point he had not foreseen, and as attack only
brought out the iniquities of the measure, they let the bill come to
ballot. The measure was defeated, and for days the papers were
headlined with David Dunne's name, and accounts of how the veterans
had been routed by the "tenderfoot from the eleventh."
After his dip into political excitement legal duties became a little
irksome to David, especially after the wedding of Joe and Janey had
taken place. In the fall occurred the death of the United States
senator from the western district of the state. A special session of
the legislature was to be convened for the purpose of pushing through
an important measure, and the election of a successor to fill the
vacancy would take place at the same time. The usual "certain rich
man," anxious for a career, aspired, and, as he was backed by the
state machine as well as by the covert influence of two or three of
the congressmen, his election seemed assured.
There was an opposing candidate, the choice of the people, however,
who was gathering strength daily.
"We've got to head off this man Dunne some way," said the manager of
the "certain rich man." "He can't beat us, but with him out of the way
it would be easy sailing, and all opposition would come over to us on
the second ballot."
"Isn't there a way to win him over?" asked a congressman who was
present.
The introducer of the memorable measure of the last session shook his
head negatively.
"He can't be persuaded, threatened, or bought."
"Then let's get him out of the way."
"Kidnap him?"
"Decoy him gently from your path. The consul of a little seaport in
South America has resigned, and at a word from me to Senator Hollis,
who would pass it on to the President, this appointment could be given
to your young bucker, and he'd be out of your way for at least three
years."
"That would be too good to be true, but he wouldn't bite at such bait.
His aspirations are all in a state line. He's got the usual career
mapped out,--state senator, secretary of state, governor--possibly
President."
"You can never tell," replied the congressman sagaciously. "A
presidential appointment, the alluring word 'consul,' a foreign
residence, all sound very enticing and important to a young country
man. The Dunne type likes to be the big frog in the puddle. This
stripling you are all so afraid of hasn't cut all his wisdom teeth
yet. It's worth a try. I'll tackle him."
The morning after this conversation, as David walked down to the
Judge's office he felt very lonely--a part of no plan. It was a mood
that made him ripe for the purpose of the congressman whom he found
awaiting him.
"I've been wanting to meet you for a long time, Mr. Dunne," said the
congressman obsequiously, after the Judge had introduced him. "We've
heard a great deal about you down in Washington since your defeat of
the Griggs Bill, and we are looking for great things from you. Of
course, we have to keep our eye on what is going on back here."
The Judge looked his surprise at this speech, and was still more
mystified at receiving a knowing wink from David.
After some preliminary talk the congressman finally made known his
errand, and tendered David the offer of a consulship in South
America.
At this juncture the Judge was summoned to the telephone in another
room. When he returned the congressman had taken his departure.
"Behold," grinned David, "the future consul of--I really can't
pronounce it. I am going to look it up now in your atlas."
"Where is Gilbert?" asked the Judge.
"Gone to wire Hilliard before I can change my mind. You see, it's a
scheme to get me out of the road and I--well I happen to be willing to
get out of the road just now. I am not in a fighting mood."
"Consular service," remarked the Judge oracularly, "is generally
considered a sort of clearing house for undesirable politicians. The
consuls to those little ports are, as a rule, very poor."
"Then a good consul like your junior partner will loom up among so
many poor ones."
Barnabas was inwardly disturbed by this move from David, but he
philosophically argued that "the boy was young and 't wouldn't harm
him to salt down awhile."
"Dave," he counseled in farewell, "I hope you'll come to love some
good gal. Every man orter hev a hearth of his own. This stretchin'
yer feet afore other folks' firesides is unnateral and lonesome.
Thar's no place so snug and safe fer a man as his own home, with a
good wife to keep it. But I want you tew make me a promise, Dave. When
I see the time's ripe fer pickin' in politics, will you come back?"
"I will, Uncle Barnabas," promised David solemnly.
The heartiest approval came from Joe.
"That's right, Dave, see all you can of the world instead of settling
down in a pasture lot at Lafferton."
CHAPTER II
Gilbert, complacent and affable, returned to Washington accompanied by
David. A month later the newly made consul sailed from New York for
South America. He landed at a South American seaport that had a fine
harbor snugly guarded by jutting cliffs skirting the base of a hill
barren and severe in aspect.
As he walked down the narrow, foreign streets thronged with a strange
people, and saw the structures with their meaningless signs, he began
to feel a wave of homesickness. Then, looking up, he felt that little
inner thrill that comes from seeing one's flag in a foreign land.
"And that is why I am here," he thought, "to keep that flag flying."
He resolutely started out on the first day to keep the flag flying in
the manner befitting the kind of a consul he meant to be. He
maintained a strict watch over the commercial conditions, and his
reports of consular news were promptly rendered in concise and
instructive form. His native tact and inherent courtesy won him favor
with the government, his hospitality and kindly intent conciliated the
natives, and he was soon also accorded social privileges. He began to
enjoy life. His duties were interesting, and his leisure was devoted
to the pursuit of novel pleasures.
Fletcher Wilder, the son of the president of an American mining
company, was down there ostensibly to look after his father's
interests, but in reality to take out pleasure parties in his trim
little yacht, and David soon came to be the most welcome guest that
set foot on its deck.
At the end of a year, when his duties had become a matter of routine
and his life had lost the charm of novelty, David's ambitions started
from their slumbers, though not this time in a political way. Wilder
had cruised away, and the young consul was conscious of a sense of
aloneness. He spent his evenings on his spacious veranda, from where
he could see the moonlight making a rippling road of silver across the
black water. The sensuous beauty of the tropical nights brought him
back to his early Land of Dreams, and the pastime that he had been
forced to relinquish for action now appealed to him with overwhelming
force and fascination. But the dreams were a man's dreams, not the
fleeting fancies of a boy. They continued to possess and absorb him
until one night, when he was looking above the mountains at one lone
star that shone brighter than the rest, he was moved for the first
time to give material shape and form to his conceptions. The impulse
led to execution.
"I must get it out of my system," he explained half apologetically to
himself as he began the writing of a novel. To this task, as to
everything else he had undertaken, he brought the entire concentration
of his mind and energy, until the book soon began to seem real to
him--more real than anything he had done. As he was copying the last
page for the last time, Fletcher sailed into the harbor for a week of
farewell before returning to New York.
"What have you been doing for amusement these last six months,
Dunne?" he asked as he dropped into David's house.
"You'd never guess," said David, "what your absence drove me to. I've
written a book--a novel."
"Let me take it back to the hotel with me to-night. I haven't been
sleeping well lately, and it may--"
"If it serves as a soporific," said David gravely, as he handed him
the bulky package, "my labor will not have been in vain."
The next morning Wilder came again into David's office.
"I fear you didn't sleep well, after all," observed David, looking at
his visitor's heavy-lidded eyes.
"No, darn you, Dunne. I took up your manuscript and I never laid it
down until the first streaks of dawn. Then when I went to bed I lay
awake thinking it all over. Why, Dunne, it's the best book I ever
read!"
"I wish," David replied with a whimsical smile, "that you were a
publisher."
"Speaking of publishers, that's why I didn't bring the manuscript
back. I sail in a week, and I want you to let me take it to a
publisher I know in New York. He will give it a prompt reading."
"If it wouldn't bother you too much, I wish you would. You see, it
would take so long for it to come back here and be sent out again each
time it is rejected."
"Rejected!" scoffed Wilder. "You wait and see! Aren't you going to
dedicate it?"
David hesitated, his eyes stealing dreamily out across the bay to the
horizon line.
"I wonder," he said meditatively, "if the person to whom it is
dedicated--every word of it--wouldn't know without the inscription."
"No," objected Fletcher, "you should have it appear out of compliment."
He smiled as he wrote on a piece of paper: "To T. L. P."
"The initials of your sweetheart?" quizzed Fletcher.
"No; when I was a little chap I used to spin yarns. These are the
initials of one who was my most absorbed listener."
Wilder raised anchor and sailed back to the states. At the expiration
of two months he wrote David that his book had been accepted. In time
ten bound copies of his novel, his allotment from the publishers,
brought him a thrill of indescribable pleasure. The next mail brought
papers with glowing reviews and letters of commendation and
congratulations. Next came a good-sized check, and the information
that his book was a "best seller."
The night that this information was received he went up to the top of
the hill that jutted over the harbor and listened to the song of the
waves. Two years in this land of liquid light--a land of burning days
and silent, sapphired nights, a land of palms and olives--two years of
quiet, dreamy bliss, an idle and unsubstantial time! How evanescent it
seemed, by the light of the days at home, when something had always
pressed him to action.
"Two years of drifting," he thought. "It is time I, too, raised anchor
and sailed home."
The next mail brought a letter that made his heart beat faster than it
had yet been able to do in this exotic, lazy land. It was a recall
from Barnabas.
"DEAR DAVE:
"Nothing but a lazy life in a foreign land would have drove a
man like you to write a book. The Jedge and M'ri are pleased,
but I know you are cut out for something different. I want you
to come home in time to run for legislature again. There's goin'
to be something doin'. It is time for another senator, and who
do you suppose is plugging for it, and opening hogsheads of
money? Wilksley. I want for you to come back and head him off.
If you've got one speck of your old spirit, and you care
anything about your state, you'll do it. I am still running
politics for this county at the old stand. Your book has started
folks to talking about you agen, so come home while the picking
is good. You've dreamt long enough. It is time to get up. Don't
write no more books till you git too old to work.
"Yours if you come,
"B. B."
The letter brought to David's eyes something that no one in this balmy
land had ever seen there. With the look of a fighter belted for battle
he went to the telegraph office and cabled Barnabas, "Coming."
CHAPTER III
On his return to Lafferton David was met at the train by the Judge,
M'ri, and Barnabas.
"Your trunks air goin' out to the farm, Dave, ain't they?" asked
Barnabas wistfully.
"Of course," replied David, with an emphasis that brought a look of
pleasure to the old man.
"Your telegram took a great load offen my mind," he said, as they
drove out to the farm. "Miss Rhody told me all along I need hev no
fears fer you, that you weren't no dawdler."
"Good for Miss Rhody!" laughed David. "She shall have her reward. I
brought her silk enough for two dresses at least."
"David," said M'ri suddenly at the dinner table, "do tell me for whose
name those initials in the dedication to your book stand. Is it any
one I know?"
"I hardly know the person myself," was the smiling and evasive
reply.
"A woman, David?"
"She figured largely in my fairy stories."
"A nickname he had for Janey," she thought with a sigh.
"Uncle Barnabas," said David the next day, "before we settle down to
things political tell me if you regret my South American experience."
"Now that you're back and gittin' into harness, I'll overlook
anything. You'd earnt a breathing spell, and you look a hull lot
older. Your book's kep' your name in the papers, tew, which helps."
"I will show you something that proves the book did more than that,"
said David, drawing his bank book from his pocket and passing it to
the old man, who read it unbelievingly.
"Why, Dave, you're rich!" he exclaimed.
"No; not rich. I shall always have to work for my living. So tell me
the situation."
This fully occupied the time it took to drive to town, for Cold
Molasses, successor to Old Hundred, kept the pace his name indicated.
The day was spent in meeting old friends, and then David settled down
to business with his old-time energy. Once more he was nominated for
the legislature and took up the work of campaigning for Stephen Hume,
opponent to Wilksley. Hume was an ardent, honest, clean-handed
politician without money, but he had for manager one Ethan Knowles, a
cool-headed, tireless veteran of campaign battles, with David acting
as assistant and speech maker.
David was elected, went to the capital, and was honored with the
office of speaker by unanimous vote. He had his plans carefully drawn
for the election of Hume, who came down on the regular train and
established headquarters at one of the hotels, surrounded by a quiet
and determined body of men.
Wilksley's supporters, a rollicking lot, had come by special train and
were quartered at a club, dispensing champagne and greenbacks
promiscuously and freely. There was also a third candidate, whose
backers were non-committal, giving no intimation as to where their
strength would go in case their candidate did not come in as a dark
horse.
When the night of the senatorial contest came the floor, galleries,
and lobby of the House were crowded. The Judge, M'ri, and Joe were
there, Janey remaining home with her father, who refused to join the
party.
"Thar'll be bigger doin's fer me to see Dave officiate at," he
prophesied.