A narrow flight of rickety, dusty stairs conducted one from the dim,
lower region of the little stand through an opening in the floor of
the judge's aerie. There was a drop-door over the opening, held up
by a hasp.
Now came a thumping of resolute feet on the stairs; a head projected
just above the edge of the opening, and stopped there.
"President, trustees, and judges!" hailed a squeaky voice.
Cap'n Sproul recognized the speaker with an uncontrollable snort of
disgust.
It was Marengo Todd, most obnoxious of all that hateful crowd of the
Cap'n's "wife's relations"--the man who had misused the Cap'n's
honeymoon guilelessness in order to borrow money and sell him
spavined horses.
Marengo surveyed them gloomily from under a driving-cap visor huge
as a sugar-scoop. He flourished at them a grimy sheet of paper.
"Mister President, trustees, and judges, I've got here a dockyment
signed by seventeen--"
President Kitchen knew that Marengo Todd had been running his
bow-legs off all the forenoon securing signatures to a petition of
protest that had been inspired by Trustee Silas Wallace. The
president pushed away the hand that brandished the paper.
"What do you take this for--an afternoon readin'-circle?" he
demanded. "If you're goin' to start your hoss in this thirty-four
class you want to get harnessed. We're here to trot hosses, not to
peruse dockyments."
"This 'ere ain't no pome on spring," yelled Marengo, banging the dust
out of the floor with his whip-butt and courageously coming up one
step on the stairs. "It's a protest, signed by seventeen drivers,
and says if you start these events with them three old sofy pillers,
there, stuffed into plug hats, for judges, we'll take this thing
clear up to the Nayshunal 'Sociation and show up this fair management.
There, chaw on that!"
"Why, bless my soul!" chirruped the Honorable Bickford, "this man
seems very much excited. You'll have to run away, my good man! We're
very busy up here, and have no time to subscribe to any papers."
Mr. Bickford evidently believed that this was one of the daily
"touches" to which he had become accustomed.
"Don't ye talk to me like I was one of your salaried
spittoon-cleaners," squealed Marengo, emboldened by the hoarse and
encouraging whispers of Trustee Wallace in the dim depths below. The
name that much repetition by Wallace had made familiar slipped out
before he had time for second thought. "I knowed ye, Kittle-belly
Bickford, when ye wore patches on your pants bigger'n dinner-plates
and--"
President Kitchen let loose the hasp that held up the drop-door and
fairly "pegged" Mr. Todd out of sight. He grinned apologetically at
a furious Mr. Bickford.
"Order the marshal to call the hosses for the thirty-four trot,
Honer'ble," he directed, anxious to give the starter something to
do to take his mind off present matters.
Mr. Bickford obeyed, finding this exercise of authority a partial
sop to his wounded feelings.
Cap'n Sproul pendulumed dispiritedly to and fro in the little
enclosure, gloomily and obstinately waiting for the disaster that
his seaman's sense of impending trouble scented. Hiram Look was
frankly and joyously enjoying a scene that revived his old circus
memories.
Eleven starters finally appeared, mostly green horses. The drivers
were sullen and resentful. Marengo Todd was up behind a Gothic ruin
that he called "Maria M." When he jogged past the judges' stand to
get position, elbows on his knees and shoulders hunched up, the glare
that he levelled on Bickford from under his scoop visor was
absolutely demoniac. The mutter of his denunciation could be heard
above the yells of the fakers and the squawk of penny whistles.
Occasionally he scruffed his forearm over his head as though fondling
something that hurt him.
To start those eleven rank brutes on that cow-lane of a track would
have tested the resources and language of a professional. When they
swung at the foot of the stretch and came scoring for the first time
it was a mix-up that excited the vociferous derision of the crowd.
Nearly every horse was off his stride, the drivers sawing at the bits.
Marengo Todd had drawn the pole, but by delaying, in order to blast
the Honorable J. Percival with his glances, he was not down to turn
with the others, and now came pelting a dozen lengths behind, howling
like a Modoc.
Some railbird satirist near the wire bawled "Go!" as the unspeakable
riot swept past in dust-clouds. The Honorable Bickford had early
possessed himself of the bell-cord as his inalienable privilege. He
did not ring the bell to call the field back. He merely leaned far
out, clutching the cord, endeavoring to get his eye on the man who
had shouted "Go!" He declaimed above the uproar that the man who would
do such a thing as that was no gentleman, and declared that he should
certainly have a constable arrest the next man who interfered with
his duties.
In the mean time President Kitchen was frantically calling to him
to ring the gong. The horses kept going, for a driver takes no chances
of losing a heat by coming back to ask questions. It was different
in the case of Marengo Todd, driver of the pole-horse, and entitled
to "protection." He pulled "Maria M." to a snorting halt under the
wire and poured forth the vials of his artistic profanity in a way
that piqued Cap'n Sproul's professional interest, he having heard
more or less eminent efforts in his days of seafaring.
Lashed in this manner, the Honorable J. Percival Bickford began
retort of a nature that reminded his fellow-townsmen that he was
"Jabe" Bickford, of Smyrna, before he was donor of public benefits
and libraries.
The grimness of Cap'n Sproul's face relaxed a little. He forgot even
the incubus of the plug hat. He nudged Hiram.
"I didn't know he had it in him," he whispered. "I was afraid he was
jest a dude and northin' else."
In this instance the dog Hector seemed to know his master's voice,
and realized that something untoward was occurring. He came bounding
out from under the stand and frisked backward toward the centre of
the track in order to get a square look at his lord. In this blind
progress he bumped against the nervous legs of "Maria M." She
promptly expressed her opinion of the Bickford family and its
attaches by rattling the ribs of Hector by a swift poke with her hoof.
The dog barked one astonished yap of indignation and came back with
a snap that started the crimson on "Maria's" fetlock. She kicked him
between the eyes this time--a blow that floored him. The next instant
"Maria M." was away, Todd vainly struggling with the reins and
trailing the last of his remarks over his shoulder. The dog was no
quitter. He appeared to have the noble blood of which his master had
boasted. After a dizzy stagger, he shot away after his assailant--a
cloud of dust with a core of dog.
The other drivers, their chins apprehensively over their shoulders,
took to the inner oval of the course or to the side lines. Todd, "Maria
M.," and Hector were, by general impulse, allowed to become the whole
show.
When the mare came under the wire the first time two swipes attempted
to stop her by the usual method of suddenly stretching a blanket
before her. She spread her legs and squatted. Todd shot forward. The
mare had a long, stiff neck. Her driver went astraddle of it and stuck
there like a clothes-pin on a line. Hector, in his cloud of dust,
dove under the sulky and once more snapped the mare's leg, this time
with a vigor that brought a squeal of fright and pain out of her.
She went over the blanket and away again. The dog, having received
another kick, and evidently realizing that he was still "it" in this
grotesque game of tag, kept up the chase.
No one who was at Smyrna fair that day ever remembered just how many
times the antagonists circled the track. But when the mare at last
began to labor under the weight of her rider, a half-dozen men rushed
out and anchored her. The dog growled, dodged the men's kicking feet,
and went back under the stand.
"What is this, jedges, a dog-fight or a hoss-trot?" raved Todd,
staggering in front of the stand and quivering his thin arms above
his head. "Whose is that dog? I've got a right to kill him, and I'm
going to. Show yourself over that rail, you old sausage, with a plug
hat on it, and tell me what you mean by a send-off like that! What
did I tell ye, trustees? It's happened. I'll kill that dog."
"I want you to understand," bellowed the Honorable Bickford, using
the megaphone, "you are talking about my dog--a dog that is worth
more dollars than that old knock-kneed plug of yours has got hairs
in her mane. Put your hand on that dog, and you'll go to State Prison."
"Then I'll bet a thousand dollars to a doughnut ye set that dog on
me," howled Marengo. "I heard ye siss him!"
The Honorable J. Percival seemed to be getting more into the spirit
of the occasion.
"You're a cross-eyed, wart-nosed liar!" he retorted, with great
alacrity.
"I'll stump ye down here," screamed Todd. "I can lick you and your
dog, both together."
"If I was in your place," said "Judge" Hiram Look, his interest in
horse-trotting paling beside this more familiar phase of sport, "I'd
go down and cuff his old chops. You'll have the crowd with you if
you do."
But Mr. Bickford, though trembling with rage, could not bring himself
to correlate fisticuffs and dignity.
"He is a miserable, cheap horse-jockey, and I shall treat him with
the contempt he deserves," he blustered. "If it hadn't been for my
dog his old boneyard could never have gone twice around the track,
anyway."
The crowds on the grand stand were bellowing: "Trot hosses! Shut up!
Trot hosses!"
"Er--what other races have we?" inquired the Honorable J. Percival,
as blandly as his violated feelings would allow.
"We haven't had any yet," cried a new voice in the stand--the wrathful
voice of Trustee Silas Wallace, of the horse department. After quite
a struggle he had managed to tip President Kitchen off the trap-door
and had ascended. "We never will have any, either," he shouted,
shaking his finger under the president's nose. "What did I tell you
would happen? We'll be reported to the National Association."
The crowd across the way roared and barked like beasts of prey, and
the insistent and shrill staccato of Marengo Todd sounded over all.
Cap'n Sproul deliberately and with much decision took off his silk
hat and held it toward the Honorable Bickford.
"I resign!" he said. "I was shanghaied into this thing against my
good judgment, and it's come out just as I expected it would. It ain't
no place for me, and I resign!"
"It isn't any place for gentlemen," agreed Mr. Bickford, ignoring
the proffered hat. "We seem to be thrown in among some very vulgar
people," he went on, his ear out for Marengo's taunts, his eyes boring
Trustee Wallace. "It is not at all as I supposed it would be. You
cannot expect us to be patrons of the races under these circumstances,
Mr. Kitchen. You will please call our barouche. We leave in great
displeasure."
"I don't give a red hoorah how you leave, so long as you leave before
you've busted up this fair--trot programmy and all," retorted Mr.
Wallace, bridling. "I've got three men waitin' ready to come into
this stand. They don't wear plug hats, but they know the diff'runce
between a dog-fight and a hoss-trot."
"Take this! I don't want it no more," insisted the Cap'n, stung by
this repeated reference to plug hats. He poked the head-gear at Mr.
Bickford. But that gentleman brushed past him, stumped down the
stairs, and strode into the stretch before the stand, loudly calling
for the carriage.
Marengo Todd, accepting his sudden and defiant appearance as gage
of battle, precipitately withdrew, leaping the fence and
disappearing under the grand-stand.
It was five minutes or more ere the barouche appeared, Mr. Parrott
requiring to be coaxed by President Kitchen to haul the three
disgraced dignitaries away. He seemed to sniff a mob sentiment that
might damage his vehicle.
Mr. Bickford's two associates followed him from the stand, the Cap'n
abashed and carrying the tall hat behind his back, Hiram Look
muttering disgusted profanity under his long mustache.
"I want to say, gentlemen," cried Mr. Bickford, utilizing the
interval of waiting to address the throng about him, "that you have
no right to blame my dog. He is a valuable animal and a great family
pet, and he only did what it is his nature to do."
Marengo Todd was edging back into the crowd, his coat off and
something wrapped in the garment.
"Blame no creature for that which it is his nature to do," said Mr.
Bickford. "He was attacked first, and he used the weapons nature
provided."
"Fam'ly pets, then, has a right to do as it is their nature for to
do?" squealed Todd, working nearer.
Mr. Bickford scornfully turned his back on this vulgar railer. The
carriage was at hand.
"How about pets known as medder hummin'-birds?" demanded Todd.
The Cap'n was the first in. Hiram came next, kicking out at the
amiable Hector, who would have preceded him. When the Honorable J.
Percival stepped in, some one slammed the carriage-door so quickly
on his heels that his long-tailed coat was caught in the crack.
Todd forced his way close to the carriage as it was about to start.
His weak nature was in a state of anger bordering on the maniacal.
"Here's some more family pets for you that ain't any dangerouser than
them you're cultivatin'. Take 'em home and study 'em."
He climbed on the wheel and shook out of the folds of his coat a
hornets' nest that he had discovered during his temporary exile under
the grand-stand. It dropped into Mr. Bickford's lap, and with a swat
of his coat Todd crushed it where it lay. It was a coward's revenge,
but it was an effective one.
Mr. Bickford leaped, either in pain or in order to pursue the fleeing
Marengo, and fell over the side of the carriage. His coat-tail held
fast in the door, and suspended him, his toes and fingers just
touching the ground. When he jumped he threw the nest as far as he
could, and it fell under the horses. Hiram endeavored to open the
hack-door as the animals started--but who ever yet opened a hack-door
in a hurry?
Cap'n Aaron Sproul's first impulse was the impulse of the sailor who
beholds dangerous top-hamper dragging at a craft's side in a squall.
He out with his big knife and cut off the Honorable Bickford's
coat-tails with one mighty slash, and that gentleman rolled in the
dust over the hornets' nest, just outside the wheels, as the carriage
roared away down the stretch.
Landlord Parrott was obliged to make one circuit of the track before
he could control his steeds, but the triumphal rush down the length
of the yelling grand-stand was an ovation that Cap'n Sproul did not
relish. He concealed the hateful plug hat between his knees, and
scowled straight ahead.
Parrott did not go back after the Honorable Bickford.
The loyal and apologetic Kitchen assisted that gentleman to rise,
brushed off his clothes--what were left of them--and carried him to
"Bickburn Towers" in his buggy, with Hector wagging sociably in the
dust behind.
Mr. Bickford fingered the ragged edge of his severed coat-tails, and
kept his thoughts to himself during his ride.
When the old lady Sampson called at the Towers next day with a
subscription paper to buy a carpet for the Baptist vestry, James
informed her that Mr. Bickford had gone out West to look after his
business interests.
When Hiram Look set Cap'n Aaron Sproul down at his door that afternoon
he emphasized the embarrassed silence that had continued during the
ride by driving away without a word. Equally as saturnine, Cap'n
Sproul walked through his dooryard, the battered plug hat in his hand,
paying no heed to the somewhat agitated questions of his wife. She
watched his march into the corn-field with concern.
She saw him set the hat on the head of a scarecrow whose construction
had occupied his spare hours, and in which he felt some little pride.
But after surveying the result a moment he seemed to feel that he
had insulted a helpless object, for he took the hat off, spat into
it, and kicked it into shapeless pulp. Then he came back to the house
and grimly asked his wife if she had anything handy to take the poison
out of hornet stings.