“Good-by, Gran’pap!”
“Good-by, Dannie! Get to school in time; and don’t forget to look after
the sheep.”
“All right, Gran’pap! Don’t forget about the new suspenders.”
“No, indeed I won’t!”
“Good-by!”
Abner Pickett drove away, and Dannie sat on the gate-post and watched
him until a turn in the road, as it wound through the narrow cañon of
Pickett’s Gap, shut him from sight.
He was still a picturesque figure, this old man, as he faced the
climbing sun and started on the ten-mile journey to town. Approaching
fourscore years, he had lost little of his physical energy, and none
of his mental vigor. He was still brusque and biting, exact to a
hair’s-breadth, honest to the heart. He never spoke to any one of
Charlie. The whole countryside knew that he had driven his son from
his home; but, save Charlie and himself, no one ever knew the reason
why. Abner Pickett would not talk about it, and Charlie did not come
back.
Not that the old man did not care. No one believed that. No one could
believe it who saw him every day. Aunt Martha, than whom no one knew
him better, detected the bitterness and the sorrow of the estrangement
in his keen eyes, and heard it in the tone of his voice time and
again, as he went about his accustomed tasks. But she knew that in the
stubbornness of his nature he would suffer death before he would make
the first sign, or accept the first proffer of reconciliation. His
pride had been too deeply cut to be healed with the salve of apology.
But then, there was Dannie. What Charlie had lost of his father’s
strange affection, Dannie had won. And the fondness which the old man
had felt and shown for Dannie’s mother had been transferred to her boy.
But he was worthy of it. He was bright and affectionate, a typical
farmer’s boy, the chum and crony of his grandfather. Many a day they
spent together in the woods and fields, many a toothsome lunch they
ate in common. Many a trip they took to hunt small game, or whip the
brooks for speckled trout. Indeed, if you saw Abner Pickett anywhere
within the borders of his four hundred acre tract, you might be pretty
well assured that Dannie was not far away.
When the boy was old enough to go to school, it came hard for both of
them to be separated all day long; and no one but gran’pap knew what a
welcome sight it was to see the sturdy little figure come tramping home
along the dusty road from the red schoolhouse two miles away.
So it was with a distinct feeling of loneliness in the heart of each
that the old man drove away to town that bright September morning, and
Dannie, sitting on the gate-post, saw him go.
For a long time the boy sat there after the last faint echo from the
wheels of the rattling buckboard died away, looking off toward the
graveyard with its fluted column, and on to the dim recesses of the
gap. He was wondering. He was wishing. It was all about his father,
whom he never remembered to have seen, to whom he had never spoken in
his life, and yet who, so far as he could learn, was living somewhere
in estrangement from his home. Why was it? When was it? Whose fault
was it? He had asked himself these questions a thousand times. He
had tried to learn from others. It was in vain. He had mentioned his
father’s name once to gran’pap. He never dared to do so the second
time. He was fond of his grandfather, very fond of him indeed. The
loveliness of his dead mother was a tradition, not only at the Pickett
hearthstone, but in all the countryside. And yet, what this boy wanted,
what he longed for with his whole boy’s heart, with all the ardor of
his soul, was, not so much a loving grandfather, not so much a dear
mother’s tenderness, as it was the living, breathing presence and daily
companionship of a strong and stalwart father.
Ah, well! He dropped from his seat on the gate-post, and strolled
up the path to the farmhouse, whistling softly. Max, the dog, came
bounding out to greet him, and, together, they went out to the sheep
pasture to see that the sheep were not straying beyond bounds and
tearing their wool with the brambles. After that, Aunt Martha, the
housekeeper, gave him his dinner in a pail, kissed him good-by as she
always did, and he started off to school. He had to drive Max back. The
dog was devoted to him and always wanted to go with him.
At the first bend in the road he turned to look back, and saw Max still
standing by the gate, looking wistfully after his young master. Somehow
or other, although Dannie was fond of his books, the day at school
dragged dreadfully, and it was with a long sigh of relief that he found
himself, in the afternoon, trudging down the dusty road toward home.
Max, waiting for him at the gate, leaped joyfully out to meet him. He
went to the house to see Aunt Martha, and then again, in compliance
with gran’pap’s request, and accompanied by the dog, he sauntered up
to the pasture to look after the sheep. That duty performed, he went
down to the flat and along the road to the potato field where Gabriel,
the steady hired man, was digging potatoes. His name was not Gabriel,
as Dannie often explained; but every one got to calling him that on
account of his horn. He had a big tin horn, once bright with red paint
and gilt bands, which he used for the purpose of driving the cows, the
sheep, the poultry, and any other live-stock of which he might be in
charge, affecting to believe that the animals responded more readily to
his signals on the horn than they would have done to the sound of his
voice. He was turning out beautiful, big, red potatoes; the Giant Rose
he called them, with now and then a few old-fashioned white pink-eyes
in the hills.
“Great crop!” he exclaimed as Dannie came up. “Biggest crop sence the
year your pa went away.”
“What did my father go away for?” asked Dannie, so quickly that
Gabriel, startled by the suddenness of the question, inadvertently
struck the blade of his hoe into a great plump potato and split it from
end to end.
“Oh, now, that’s too bad!” he exclaimed, as he stooped to pick up the
severed parts, moist and milk-white on the broad cut surfaces. “That’s
the fust potater I’ve cut this season, or even nicked,” he continued,
gazing ruefully at the vegetable wreck in his hand.
“What did my father go away for?” repeated Dannie.
The question certainly was direct enough to demand an answer. Gabriel
leaned on his hoe-handle thoughtfully, and took the matter into due
consideration before replying.
“Well now, I’ve hearn one story about it one day, an’ another story
about it another day. Defferent people hez defferent idees. Ez fer me,
I ain’t prepared to make no affidavy about it one way ner another.
‘Don’t tell what you don’t know jes’ because it’s easy,’ ez ol’ Isra’l
Pidgin use to say.”
“What do folks say he went away for?” persisted Dannie.
“Well, that’s another question. Some says one thing an’ some says
another. Likely as not they ain’t nobody knows jest the right of it.”
“Did he an’ Gran’pap quarrel?”
Gabriel pushed the loose dirt from the top of the next hill of potatoes
before he answered.
“Well, ef they did quarrel--now mind ye, I ain’t a-sayin’ wuther they
did or wuther they didn’t--but ef they _did_ quarrel, it was a quarrel
wuth lis’nin’ to, I can tell ye that. I knowed yer pa; knowed ’im
like a book; worked right alongside of ’im many a day. Best-natered,
best-hearted, best-mannered young feller I ever see in all _my_ life.
But”--impressively--“he wouldn’t never let no one set on ’im. W’en he
sot out to do a thing he done it wuther or no. An’ w’en he got ’is
dander up--well, my gracious! You seen he was a chip o’ the ol’ block
then, sure. An’ yer gran’pap! Well, you know yer gran’pap perty nigh as
well as I do, an’ you know ’at w’at he ain’t capable uv in the way o’
well-digested contrariness ain’t wuth mentionin’. ’Member the dressin’
down he give ’Squire Biddlecomb las’ spring over that breechy cow o’
his’n?”
Gabriel stopped for a moment to chuckle in delighted remembrance over
the incident to which he had referred. Then he continued:--
“So, ez I say, ef they did quarrel, it must ’a’ be’n a rip-staver. An’,
ez ol’ Isra’l Pidgin use to say, ‘It takes longer fer a win’fall to
grow up with new timber ’an it does to heal up a family quarrel.’”
Gabriel never tired of quoting Israel Pidgin; but, when asked about
this oracle, the facts he was able to give were very meagre. “An ol’
feller I use to know up in York state” was usually all the information
that could be obtained. There were those, however, who did not hesitate
to declare that the supposed sage was wholly a creature of Gabriel’s
imagination.
“Heard anything about the new railroad?” he asked, changing the subject
abruptly, and digging violently into the bottom and sides of a hill
from which he had already thrown out all the potatoes. “Say they’re
a-comin’ right down acrost the farm an’ out through the gap to the
river.”
Dannie knew that it was useless to question Gabriel further about his
father, and he turned away disappointed and vexed.
“No,” he replied impatiently, “I don’t know anything about the new
railroad, an’ I don’t know as I care.”
“Well,” continued Gabriel, leaning contemplatively on the handle of his
hoe, “ef Abner Pickett gits what it’s wuth to a railroad to run through
that gap, he can afford to wear a starched shirt onct in a w’ile on a
Sunday.”
“Gran’pap wears the kind o’ shirts that suits him,” replied Dannie,
indignantly, “an’ it’s nobody’s business but his own.”
“Of course! Of course!” chuckled Gabriel. “As ol’ Isra’l Pidgin use to
say, ‘Blood’s thicker’n water; an’ ye can’t thin it by stirrin’ of it
up.’”
Dannie was tired and disheartened. He looked away toward the gap and
wished, with all his heart, that he might see Gran’pap coming up the
road toward home. Some one, indeed, was coming from out the shadows of
the rocks, but it was not Gran’pap. It was a small, black-whiskered
man, carrying an engineer’s transit. When he was well out from the
mouth of the gap he set up his instrument and adjusted it, and peered
through the telescope, first back into the shadows of the cañon, and
then ahead toward the graveyard, into the sacred enclosure of which the
flagman, with his signal pole, was already advancing.
“Look, Gabriel!” exclaimed Dannie, “look! What are they doing?”
Gabriel gave a quick glance toward the gap.
“It’s the new railroad,” he said. “Sure as eternity, it’s the new
railroad!”
The chainmen were now in sight, measuring off the distances. The
flagman, standing in the very centre of the graveyard and looking back
to the transitman, was holding his pole on the ground and balancing it
with his hands to keep it plumb.
Gabriel had dropped his hoe, Dannie had thrust his hands savagely into
his trousers pockets, and both stood gazing with wide eyes on the
animated scene.
“W’at under the canopy Abner Pickett’ll say to that is more’n I’d like
to wager on!” exclaimed Gabriel. “Think of it, Dan! A railroad right up
through yer gran’pap’s gap; right up through yer gran’pap’s road an’
crick; right up through--bust my bellus ef ’tain’t a comin’ right up
through yer gran’pap’s graveyard!”
Dannie set his teeth tight and jammed his fists deeper into his
trousers pockets as he saw an engineer’s assistant drive a stake on the
graveyard eminence halfway between the fluted column and the roadside
wall. He had learned to hold the burial plot in scarcely less reverence
than did the old man himself; and to see it trespassed on in this
fashion roused all his ire. But the trespass was so audacious that,
looking on it as he did, he could neither move nor speak.
The engineers were evidently in some haste. They were setting their
line of stakes along the narrow strip of land between the creek and
the public road. Already the leveller and the rodman were in sight,
following up the location, and the transitman had advanced along the
road to a point opposite the potato field where the valley widened and
the land began to slope more gently to the north and west. He leaped
the fence lightly and came to within twenty feet of where Dannie and
Gabriel were standing.
“Hello!” said Gabriel.
“Hello!” replied the stranger.
“Runnin’ a railroad?”
“Yes. Do you own the place?”
“No; but I work fer the man ’at does, an’ I’m thinkin’ it wouldn’t be
right healthy fer ye ef he was in sight.”
The stranger laughed a little, showing a row of very white teeth.
“Don’t he want a railroad through his place?”
“Not ef the court knows herself, he don’t, nor through his gap nuther.”
“Does he own that gap?”
“Ain’t nobody else owned it fer forty year.”
The engineer looked back into the shadows cast by the beetling cliffs,
and then up along his line of stakes.
“Well,” he replied, “all I have to say is, speaking from a railroad
point of view, he’s got a valuable property.”
He glanced ahead at his flagman and directed him to a point farther up
in the field, to which point, having fixed and recorded it, he himself
hastened, followed by Gabriel and Dannie. Up to this moment the boy had
not opened his mouth. Now, with the ring of rising indignation in his
voice, he spoke up:--
“Has this railroad got a right to run through my gran’father’s land
without his permission?”
Either the engineer was in haste and did not wish to be again
interrupted, or else he did not think the boy of sufficient consequence
to demand his attention; for, after looking him over for a moment, he
went on with his work without replying.
Dannie repeated the question.
“I say has your railroad got a right to run through my gran’father’s
land if he don’t want it to?”
The man evidently decided to reply.
“Yes,” he said snappishly, “got a right to run plumb through his house;
and I’m not sure but we shall if he does any kicking.”
“An’ have you got a right to run through that graveyard down yonder?”
“Oh! graveyards don’t count when there’s a railroad to be built. Come!
you’re right in my line of sight. Get over in the road there if you
want to see. Hadn’t you better run home, anyway, and tell the old man
to look out for his cattle? First thing he knows the engine will be
a-puffing, and the bell a-ringing, and the whistle a-blowing right
through his barnyard, scaring all his live-stock into fits.”
This was the last straw. It was bad enough to drive a stake in
his grandfather’s graveyard; it was worse to order him out of his
grandfather’s field; but to ridicule, in that coarse way, the
old man whom he loved, that was the crowning insult. Dannie’s face
was white, and his hands, still tight in his trousers pockets, were
clenched in anger.
“This land is my gran’father’s, an’ I’ll stand where I please on
it,” he declared. “An’ that graveyard is my gran’father’s, an’ your
railroad’ll never lay a tie nor put a rail in it while Gran’pap and I
have breath in our bodies. An’ your making fun of an old man like him
when he ain’t here is the act of a coward!”
[Illustration: “‘This land is my gran’father’s, an’ I’ll stand where I
please on it.’”]
The boy stopped, breathless, his breast heaving and his eyes flashing.
Gabriel, his face glowing with exultation at the lad’s spirit, pulled
his old horn from his pocket, thrust it to his lips, and gave a
tremendous blast. The engineer stopped in the middle of a record,
looked the boy over again from head to foot, and then burst into a
hearty laugh.
“You’ll do!” he exclaimed. “Stand right where you are as long as you
want to. If you don’t own this farm some day, it won’t be because you
don’t deserve to. I’m through, anyway,” he added, glancing at his
watch. “Put a plug there, John,” addressing an axeman, “and tell the
boys to chain up. The country beyond this is open and free--room for
fifty railroads; but the gap is ours now, and the game is ours, and the
Tidewater and Western may catch us if it can. Put a bench on the point
of that rock, Miller, and then get your tools together.”
The man addressed chiselled a cross on the projecting crown of a huge
rock near by, the leveller took the height of the point and recorded
it, and the work of the day was done. The engineer removed the head of
his transit from the tripod, and as the rest of the party faced toward
the gap, he turned to Dannie.
“Well, good night,” he said; “I don’t like your manners, but I admire
your spunk. Shall we part friends?”
He held out his hand as he spoke, but Dannie looked at him contemptuously
and did not reply.
“Oh, just as you feel about it,” continued the man. “But kindly give
your aged and respected grandparent this bit of advice from me, ‘Don’t
fight the Delaware Valley and Eastern.’”
He waved his hand jauntily, flung back another unanswered “Good night,”
and five minutes later, with the rest of his company, he entered into
the dark recesses of the gap, on his way to the river and the town.