JABEZ SMITH MAKES A BUSINESS PROPOSITION
When one is fired with an idea, the wisest thing is to work it out
immediately, and Miss Andrews lost no time in carrying through her
part of the bargain. She knew Jabez Smith’s habits from a year’s
observation, and that evening, after supper, she hunted him out
where he sat on the back porch of the house, reflectively smoking
his pipe. His preference for the back porch over the front porch was
one of his peculiarities. From the front porch one could see the
whole sweep of the valley, with its ever-changing beauties of light
and shade. From the back one, nothing was visible but the imminent
hillside mounting steeply upward.
To be sure, if one leaned forward in his chair, a glimpse might be
had of the mouth of a coal-mine high up on the hillside, and his
sister said that it was to look at this that Jabez sat on the back
porch. It seemed likely enough, for it was from that drift that he
had drawn enough money to make his remaining years comfortable.
Jabez Smith had come into these mountains while they were yet a
wilderness, unknown, or almost so, to white men, save where the
highroads crossed them scores of miles apart. What circumstance had
driven him from his home near Philadelphia was never known, but
certain it was that he had plunged alone into the mountains, and
battled through them until he had reached the New River valley.
Caprice, or perhaps the beauty of the place, moved him to make his
home here. He bought two hundred acres of land for half as many
dollars, built himself a rude log cabin, and settled down,
apparently to spend the remainder of his life in solitude.
Then came the discovery of the great beds of coal, and the building
of the railroad through this very valley. His two hundred acres
jumped in value to a thousand times what he had paid for them, and
when the Great Eastern Coal Company was organized to develop the
mines, he sold to them all of the land except a few acres which he
reserved for his home. There he had built a comfortable house, and
had sent for his widowed sister to come and live with him. He
gradually grew to be something of a power in the place, and had been
postmaster ever since an office had been established there. It was
he who had secured money for the erection of the school-house, and
he had been the only local contributor to Mr. Bayliss’s church.
Still, he was a peculiar man, and bore the reputation of being
harsh. Women said that was because he had never married. Men
wondered why, with all his wealth, he should be content to spend his
life in this humdrum and unattractive place. But he seemed to pay no
heed to all these comments. He formed habits of peculiar regularity,
and one of these was, as has been already said, to sit on the back
porch after supper and smoke an evening pipe.
It was there he was that Sunday evening, and he turned as he heard
steps on the porch behind him.
“Ah, Miss Bessie, good evenin’,” he said cordially. “Won’t y’ take a
cheer?” And he waved his hand toward a little low rocker that stood
in one corner. “I hope y’ don’t object t’ terbaccer,” he added, as
she brought the chair forward and sat down.
“Do you suppose I should have come here to disturb you if I did?”
she retorted laughingly. “I want you to keep on smoking. I know a
man is always more inclined to grant a favor when he’s smoking.”
He glanced at her quickly, with just a trace of suspicion in his
eyes, and moved uneasily in his chair.
“What’s th’ favor?” he asked.
“You remember I was telling you the other day about Tommy
Remington,” she began, “and you said something must be done for the
boy, and that you wished to help.”
“’Twasn’t exactly thet,” he corrected, smiling in spite of himself,
“but thet’ll do.”
“Well, we have a plan,” she continued, “a good plan, I believe”; and
she told him of her talk with Mr. Bayliss.
He sat silent for a long time after she had finished, smoking
slowly, and looking at the hillside.
“I dunno,” he said at last. “I dunno. It’s a resky thing t’ send a
boy out thet way. But mebbe it’ll turn out all right. As I
understan’, it’ll take nine hunderd dollars t’ put it through.”
“Nine hundred,” she nodded.
He took a long whiff and watched the smoke as it circled slowly
upward.
“Nine hunderd,” he repeated. “Thet’s a lot o’ money—a good bit o’
money. I’m afeard I ain’t got thet much t’ give away, Miss Bessie. I
don’ believe in givin’ people money, anyways.”
He glanced at her and saw how her face changed. Her voice was
trembling a little when she spoke.
“Very well, Mr. Smith,” she said. “Of course it is a lot of money. I
had no right to ask you.” And she rose to go. “I’ll tell Mr.
Bayliss, and we will find some other plan.”
“Set down!” he interrupted, almost roughly. “Set down, an’ wait till
I git through.”
She sat down again, looking at him with astonishment not unmixed
with fear.
“Now,” he continued, “I said I didn’t hev thet much money t’ give
away, but thet ain’t sayin’ I ain’t got it t’ loan. Now I’m a
business man. I don’ believe in fosterin’ porpers. If this yere
Tommy o’ yourn shows he’s got th’ stuff in him t’ make a scholar,
an’ you git his father t’ consent t’ his goin’ away, I’ll tell you
what I’ll do, jest as a business proposition. I’ll loan him three
hunderd dollars at five per cent., t’ be paid back when he earns it.
Thet’ll pay fer one year, an’ I reckon I kin make th’ same
proposition when th’ second an’ third years come round, pervided, of
course, th’ boy turns out th’ way you expect. Ef ’t takes four
years, why, all right.”
He stopped to get his pipe going again, and his hearer started from
her chair with glistening eyes.
“Oh, Mr. Smith,” she began, but he waved her back.
“Set down, can’t yer?” he cried, more fiercely than ever; and she
sank back again, beginning at last to understand something of this
man. “I ain’t through yet. When you git ready fer the money, you
come t’ me an’ I’ll make out th’ note. You kin take it t’ him an’
let him sign it. But I don’ want no polly-foxin’ roun’ me. I won’t
stan’ it. You tell th’ boy t’ keep away from me, an’ don’ you let
anybody else know about it, er I won’t loan him a cent.”
She sat looking at him, her lips trembling.
“Now you mind,” he repeated severely, shaking his pipe at her, but
not daring to meet her eyes. “I won’t have no foolin’. Promise
you’ll keep this t’ yourself.”
She was laughing now, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
“I promise,” she cried. “But oh, Mr. Smith, you can’t prevent my
thinking, though you may prevent my talking. Do you want to know
what I think of what you’ve done?”
He shook a threatening finger, but she was bending over him and
looking down into his eyes.
“No, you can’t frighten me! I’m not in the least afraid of you, for
I think you’re a dear, dear, _dear_!”
He half started from his chair, but she turned and fled into the
house, casting one sparkling glance over her shoulder as she went.
He sank back into his seat with a face quite the reverse of angry,
and started up his pipe again, and as he gazed out at the hillside
he was tasting one of the great sweetnesses of life.
That evening, at the close of the service in the little church, Miss
Andrews waited for the minister, to tell him her good news.
“And who is this Good Samaritan?” he asked, when she had finished.
“It may be business, as he says, but it’s rather queer business, it
seems to me, to lend a boy nine hundred dollars, with no security
but his own, and with an indefinite time in which to repay it. What
could have persuaded him to do it?”
“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “he saw the boy.”
“And the boy had you to plead his cause,” he added, smiling at her.
“Come, I’ll not ask you again who this mysterious benefactor is.
Perhaps I suspect. I think I’ve had some dealings with him myself.”
“I knew it!” she cried, clapping her hands in her excitement. “I
knew this was not the first time, the moment he began to talk
harshly to me. Oh, you should have heard him!”
“I have heard him,” he laughed. “Yes, and felt him, too.”
“Tell me.”
He shook his head.
“He would not like it. Besides, I promised not to.”
“But you will mention no names,” she protested. “You will not tell
me who he is. Surely, he could not object to that!”
“I fear that is a dangerous subtlety,” he said, smiling; “but it can
do no harm, since you already know.”
Here is the story—with a few details about himself which the
minister somehow neglected to give.
* * * * *
Three years before, there had been a strike in the mines of the
Great Eastern Coal Company. What caused it is no matter now—some
grievance, real or fancied, on the part of the miners. They had
demanded redress, the company had refused to make any change in the
existing order of things, and, in consequence, one morning, when the
whistle blew, not a single man answered it, and the mines were shut
down.
For a time things went much as usual in New River valley. The miners
sat in front of their houses smoking, or gathered in little groups
here and there to talk over the situation. But by degrees the
appearance of contentment disappeared. None of the men had saved
much money; many had none at all; still more were already in debt at
the company store—they had got into the habit of exceeding their
earnings there, of receiving, at the end of every month, instead of
a pay envelope, a “snake statement,” with a zigzag line drawn from
indebtedness to credit given. Further credit at the store was
refused, and it was whispered about that the company meant to starve
them into subjection. The faces of the men began to show an ominous
scowl; the groups became larger and the talk took on a menacing
tone. The reporters who had hurried to the scene telegraphed their
papers that there would soon be trouble in the New River valley.
During all this time Mr. Bayliss had worked unceasingly to bring the
strike to an end. He had labored with the officials of the company,
and with the men. Both sides were obdurate. The men threatened
violence; the company responded that in the event of violence it
would call on the law to protect its property, and that the muskets
of the troops would be loaded with ball. In the meantime the wives
and children of the miners had no food, and things were growing
desperate.
Just when matters were at their worst, a strange thing happened. One
of the miners one morning found a sack of flour on his doorstep;
another found a side of bacon; a third a basket of potatoes; a
fourth, a measure of meal. Whence the gifts came no one knew; and no
one tried to probe the mystery, for it was whispered about that it
was bad luck to try to discover the giver, since he evidently wished
to remain unknown. Word of all this came, of course, to Mr. Bayliss,
and he wondered like the rest.
He was called, one night, to a cabin on the mountain-side, where a
miner’s wife lay ill. It was not till long past midnight that she
dropped asleep, and after comforting the husband and children as
well as lay in his power, he left the cabin and started homeward. It
was a clear, starlit night in late October, and he lingered on the
way to breathe in the sweet, fresh fragrance of the woods—a pleasant
contrast to the close cabin he had just left. As he paused for a
moment to look along the valley, and wonder anew at its beauty, he
heard footsteps mounting the path toward him, and glancing down, he
saw a man approaching apparently carrying a heavy load. Wondering
who it could be abroad at this hour, he stood where he was and
awaited the stranger’s approach. But he did not come directly to
him. He turned up a path which led to a cabin, and the watcher saw
him place a bundle on the doorstep. With leaping heart, he
understood. It was the man who had been saving the miners’ families
from starvation.
His pulse was beating strangely as he saw the man return to the main
path and again mount toward him. As he came opposite him, the
minister stepped out of the shadow.
“My friend,” he said gently.
The stranger started as though detected in the commission of some
crime, dropped the sacks he was carrying, and sprang upon the other.
“What d’ y’ mean?” he cried hoarsely, clutching him fiercely by the
shoulders. “Spyin’, was y’?”
The minister smiled into his face, despite the pain his rough clasp
caused him.
“No, I was not spying, Mr. Smith,” he said. “I came this way quite
by accident. But I thank God for the accident that has made you
known to me.”
Jabez Smith dropped his hands.
“The preacher!” he muttered, and looked at him shamefacedly.
“Promise me you’ll fergit about this, Mr. Bayliss.”
“How can I promise what I can never do?” asked the other, with a
smile. “I shall remember it night and morning in my prayers.”
“At least,” said Jabez, imploringly, “promise me you’ll tell nobody,
sir. If y’ do tell,” he added fiercely, “it’ll stop right here!”
The minister smiled at him through a mist of tears.
“I’ll promise to tell no one, Mr. Smith,” he said.
“That’ll do,” growled Jabez. “Good night.” And he turned to pick up
his bundles.
“Nay,” said the minister, quickly, “not yet. Let me help you. That
is too heavy a load for one man, however light his heart may be.”
And he stooped and picked up two of the sacks.
The other grumbled a little, but saw it was of no use to protest,
and they toiled up the hill together. At last every one of the
bundles had been left behind, and they turned homeward.
“Mr. Smith,” began the minister, softly, “I can’t tell you how my
heart has been moved to-night.”
“Stop!” cried the other. “Stop! I won’t have it!”
“At least, let me ease you of this night toil,” persisted the
minister. “You must not tax your strength like this, night after
night. I can guess what joy it gives you, but you will kill
yourself, or at best bring on serious illness.”
The other shook his head and walked on in silence.
“But I may help you as I have to-night,” the minister pleaded. “Let
me do that. I should love to do it. I take no credit to myself, but
I should love to do it.”
It was only after much persuasion that Jabez consented even to this.
But consent he did, finally, and every night after that they went
forth together on their errand of mercy, until at last miners and
mine-owners reached a compromise and the strike ended. Since then,
other cases of great need had been helped in the same way—only
worthy cases, though, and in no instance had he helped the lazy or
wilfully idle. A man who would not work, declared Jabez, sternly,
deserved to starve.
* * * * *
When Miss Andrews that evening ran up the steps which led to the
door of the Smith homestead, her lips still quivering from the story
she had heard, she caught a glimpse of the owner. It was only a
glimpse, for when he saw her coming he dived hastily indoors.