I
Si Bryant's place was on the shore of the lake, and his garden-patch,
shielded from the north by a bold little promontory and a higher ridge
inland, was accounted the most successful and surprising in all
Whilomville township. One afternoon Si was working in the
garden-patch, when Doctor Trescott's man, Peter Washington, came
trudging slowly along the road, observing nature. He scanned the white
man's fine agricultural results. "Take your eye off them there
mellons, you rascal," said Si, placidly.
The negro's face widened in a grin of delight. "Well, Mist' Bryant, I
raikon I ain't on'y make m'se'f covertous er-lookin' at dem yere
mellums, sure 'nough. Dey suhtainly is grand."
"That's all right," responded Si, with affected bitterness of spirit.
"That's all right. Just don't you admire 'em too much, that's all."
Peter chuckled and chuckled. "Ma Lode! Mist' Bryant, y-y-you don'
think I'm gwine come prowlin' in dish yer gawden?"
"No, I know you hain't," said Si, with solemnity. "B'cause, if you
did, I'd shoot you so full of holes you couldn't tell yourself from a
sponge."
"Um--no, seh! No, seh! I don' raikon you'll get chance at Pete, Mist'
Bryant. No, seh. I'll take an' run 'long an' rob er bank 'fore I'll
come foolishin' 'round _your_ gawden, Mist' Bryant."
Bryant, gnarled and strong as an old tree, leaned on his hoe, and
laughed a Yankee laugh. His mouth remained tightly closed, but the
sinister lines which ran from the sides of his nose to the meetings of
his lips developed to form a comic oval, and he emitted a series of
grunts, while his eyes gleamed merrily and his shoulders shook. Pete,
on the contrary, threw back his head and guffawed thunderously. The
effete joke in regard to an American negro's fondness for watermelons
was still an admirable pleasantry to them, and this was not the first
time they had engaged in badinage over it. In fact, this venerable
survival had formed between them a friendship of casual roadside
quality.
Afterwards Peter went on up the road. He continued to chuckle until he
was far away. He was going to pay a visit to old Alek Williams, a
negro who lived with a large family in a hut clinging to the side of a
mountain. The scattered colony of negroes which hovered near
Whilomville was of interesting origin, being the result of some
contrabands who had drifted as far north as Whilomville during the
great civil war. The descendants of these adventurers were mainly
conspicuous for their bewildering number, and the facility which they
possessed for adding even to this number. Speaking, for example, of
the Jacksons--one couldn't hurl a stone into the hills about
Whilomville without having it land on the roof of a hut full of
Jacksons. The town reaped little in labor from these curious suburbs.
There were a few men who came in regularly to work in gardens, to
drive teams, to care for horses, and there were a few women who came
in to cook or to wash. These latter had usually drunken husbands. In
the main the colony loafed in high spirits, and the industrious
minority gained no direct honor from their fellows, unless they spent
their earnings on raiment, in which case they were naturally treated
with distinction. On the whole, the hardships of these people were the
wind, the rain, the snow, and any other physical difficulties which
they could cultivate. About twice a year the lady philanthropists of
Whilomville went up against them, and came away poorer in goods but
rich in complacence. After one of these attacks the colony would
preserve a comic air of rectitude for two days, and then relapse again
to the genial irresponsibility of a crew of monkeys.
Peter Washington was one of the industrious class who occupied a
position of distinction, for he surely spent his money on personal
decoration. On occasion he could dress better than the Mayor of
Whilomville himself, or at least in more colors, which was the main
thing to the minds of his admirers. His ideal had been the late
gallant Henry Johnson, whose conquests in Watermelon Alley, as well as
in the hill shanties, had proved him the equal if not the superior of
any Pullman-car porter in the country. Perhaps Peter had too much
Virginia laziness and humor in him to be a wholly adequate successor
to the fastidious Henry Johnson, but, at any rate, he admired his
memory so attentively as to be openly termed a dude by envious
people.
[Illustration: "HE HEAVED ONE OF HIS EIGHT-OUNCE ROCKS"]
On this afternoon he was going to call on old Alek Williams because
Alek's eldest girl was just turned seventeen, and, to Peter's mind,
was a triumph of beauty. He was not wearing his best clothes, because
on his last visit Alek's half-breed hound Susie had taken occasion to
forcefully extract a quite large and valuable part of the visitor's
trousers. When Peter arrived at the end of the rocky field which
contained old Alek's shanty he stooped and provided himself with
several large stones, weighing them carefully in his hand, and finally
continuing his journey with three stones of about eight ounces each.
When he was near the house, three gaunt hounds, Rover and Carlo and
Susie, came sweeping down upon him. His impression was that they were
going to climb him as if he were a tree, but at the critical moment
they swerved and went growling and snapping around him, their heads
low, their eyes malignant. The afternoon caller waited until Susie
presented her side to him, then he heaved one of his eight-ounce
rocks. When it landed, her hollow ribs gave forth a drumlike sound,
and she was knocked sprawling, her legs in the air. The other hounds
at once fled in horror, and she followed as soon as she was able,
yelping at the top of her lungs. The afternoon caller resumed his
march.
At the wild expressions of Susie's anguish old Alek had flung open the
door and come hastily into the sunshine. "Yah, you Suse, come erlong
outa dat now. What fer you--Oh, how do, how do, Mist' Wash'ton--how
do?"
"How do, Mist' Willums? I done foun' it necessa'y fer ter damnearkill
dish yer dawg a yourn, Mist' Willums."
"Come in, come in, Mist' Wash'ton. Dawg no 'count, Mist' Wash'ton."
Then he turned to address the unfortunate animal. "Hu't, did it? Hu't?
'Pears like you gwine dun some saince by time somebody brek yer back.
'Pears like I gwine club yer inter er frazzle 'fore you fin' out some
saince. Gw'on 'way f'm yah!"
As the old man and his guest entered the shanty a body of black
children spread out in crescent-shape formation and observed Peter
with awe. Fat old Mrs. Williams greeted him turbulently, while the
eldest girl, Mollie, lurked in a corner and giggled with finished
imbecility, gazing at the visitor with eyes that were shy and bold by
turns. She seemed at times absurdly over-confident, at times foolishly
afraid; but her giggle consistently endured. It was a giggle on which
an irascible but right-minded judge would have ordered her forthwith
to be buried alive.
[Illustration: "MOLLIE LURKED IN A CORNER AND GIGGLED"]
Amid a great deal of hospitable gabbling, Peter was conducted to the
best chair out of the three that the house contained. Enthroned
therein, he made himself charming in talk to the old people, who
beamed upon him joyously. As for Mollie, he affected to be unaware of
her existence. This may have been a method for entrapping the
sentimental interest of that young gazelle, or it may be that the
giggle had worked upon him.
He was absolutely fascinating to the old people. They could talk like
rotary snow-ploughs, and he gave them every chance, while his face was
illumined with appreciation. They pressed him to stay for supper, and
he consented, after a glance at the pot on the stove which was too
furtive to be noted.
During the meal old Alek recounted the high state of Judge
Oglethorpe's kitchen-garden, which Alek said was due to his
unremitting industry and fine intelligence. Alek was a gardener,
whenever impending starvation forced him to cease temporarily from
being a lily of the field.
"Mist' Bryant he suhtainly got er grand gawden," observed Peter.
"Dat so, dat so, Mist' Wash'ton," assented Alek. "He got fine gawden."
"Seems like I nev' _did_ see sech mellums, big as er bar'l, layin'
dere. I don't raikon an'body in dish yer county kin hol' it with Mist'
Bryant when comes ter mellums."
"Dat so, Mist' Wash'ton."
They did not talk of watermelons until their heads held nothing else,
as the phrase goes. But they talked of watermelons until, when Peter
started for home that night over a lonely road, they held a certain
dominant position in his mind. Alek had come with him as far as the
fence, in order to protect him from a possible attack by the mongrels.
There they had cheerfully parted, two honest men.
The night was dark, and heavy with moisture. Peter found it
uncomfortable to walk rapidly. He merely loitered on the road. When
opposite Si Bryant's place he paused and looked over the fence into
the garden. He imagined he could see the form of a huge melon lying in
dim stateliness not ten yards away. He looked at the Bryant house. Two
windows, down-stairs, were lighted. The Bryants kept no dog, old Si's
favorite child having once been bitten by a dog, and having since
died, within that year, of pneumonia.
Peering over the fence, Peter fancied that if any low-minded
night-prowler should happen to note the melon, he would not find it
difficult to possess himself of it. This person would merely wait
until the lights were out in the house, and the people presumably
asleep. Then he would climb the fence, reach the melon in a few
strides, sever the stem with his ready knife, and in a trice be back
in the road with his prize. There need be no noise, and, after all,
the house was some distance.
Selecting a smooth bit of turf, Peter took a seat by the road-side.
From time to time he glanced at the lighted window.