AN OLD STRIFE RENEWED
It was February and the air was stinging cold. It was one of those
nights such as Lowell wrote about in “The Courtin'.”
“God makes sech nights, all white an' still
Fur'z you can look or listen,
Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,
All silence an' all glisten.”
In the store of the Strout and Maxwell Company quite a number of the
town's people were gathered about the big air-tight stove which was kept
stuffed full of wood by willing hands and from which came great waves of
almost scorching heat.
Such congregations of villagers are often said to be composed of loafers
and loungers, but it was not so at Fernborough. The men who represented
the brains and marrow of the town met there. It was the home of the town
debating society and supplied a free forum for the discussion of public
questions. If the advanced ideas in statesmanship and social economy
incubated there could have become the property of the nation, our
country would have grown wiser and better.
But for the intense cold the company gathered there on the evening in
question would have been much larger. Benoni Hill, the former proprietor
of the store and the richest man in town, did not think his wealth
was any reason why he should hold aloof or consider himself above his
neighbours, whose patronage had been the foundation of his fortune.
He was given an old arm-chair while the others sat upon soap-boxes and
nail-kegs. Cobb's Twins, William and James, were there, Emmanuel Howe,
the minister's son, and Bob Wood who still sang bass in the village
church choir.
The store door was opened letting in a gust of cold air which made all
draw nearer to the red-hot stove. The newcomer was Samuel Hill, Benoni's
son.
A chorus of voices cried: “Hello, Sam!” and a place was made for him so
he could thaw out his almost frozen fingers.
“It's mighty cold, ain't it?” said his father.
“Well, I should smile,” replied Sam. This expression he had heard the
last time he was in the city, and he derived great pleasure from its
repetition.
“How's Tilly?” asked Bob Wood.
“Able to be up and have her bed made.”
All laughed at the rejoinder. Smiles and laughter are easily evoked in a
village grocery.
Mr. Obadiah Strout and Mr. Hiram Maxwell, general partners, were in the
private office, a small room adjoining the post-office. Mr. Strout was
smoking a cigar and reading a letter between the puffs. Hiram, with his
chair tilted back against the wall, was smoking his after-supper pipe,
for it was after seven o'clock in the evening.
“Mr. Maxwell,” said Obadiah, laying down the letter he had been reading,
“this is from the trustees of the estate of the Honourable Quincy
Adams Sawyer, formerly our special partner, and the ex-Governor of this
Commonwealth. I mention the fact of him being our former special partner
first, before I said anything about his political elevation, for I don't
believe, Mr. Maxwell, that he would ever have been Governor if he hadn't
jined in with us.”
Mr. Strout always called Hiram “Mr. Maxwell,” when they talked over
business affairs.
Hiram blew a cloud from his pipe. “Wall, I guess they're putty well
satisfied with what we've been doin', ain't they?”
Mr. Strout leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied look on his
face.
“Wall, they must be a pretty near set if they expect more'n twelve per
cent, on the capital. No, they're all right, 'though one of 'em, that
Mr. Merry, is mighty inquisitive 'bout small things. Marryin' inter the
Sawyer family 'counts for it, I s'pose.”
Hiram was used to hearing covert slurs and open flings at the Sawyer
family, but had found replies only provocative of attacks upon himself,
so he listened in silence. Mr. Strout took up the letter. “I wrote
'em 'bout startin' that new branch over to Westvale, and although they
answered in a kinder top-lofty style--I reckon that young Merry writ the
letter--I 'magine they're in for it, horse, foot, and dragoons. They'll
put up the money. An' the question now is who'll go over and take charge
of it.”
Hiram put his pipe on the table. “There's two folks that don't want to
go, an' that's Mandy an' me. I don't s'pose the children would find any
fault, but they're not old enough to vote on the question.”
Hiram knew that his partner was anxious to get him out of the
Fernborough store, and so he filed his objections at once.
“Oh,” said Strout, “of course I didn't have no sech idee as askin' you
to go, even if you did know who was the best man for the job. The snail
thinks he's travelled a long ways when he goes a foot, an' some men are
jus' like him.”
Hiram ignored the personal application.
“Well, bein's you didn't want me to go, I s'pose you've somebody in
mind. Suit yourself, as us'al.”
“Well, I've thought it all over, an' I think Billy Ricker's our man.
He'll be over from Montrose to-morrow an' I'll talk it over with him.
We've got that Montrose trade so solid he can be spared from there now.
Guess there ain't any trade tonight or Bob would have called us in afore
this.”
“Ef we sold cord wood we might be doin' somethin',” and, laughing in his
old way at his own joke, Hiram started to follow his partner into the
store.
“Say, Hiram,” called out Strout in a loud voice, “bring in them two
chairs--everything's occupied out here 'cept the counter.”
As the proprietors took their seats, the store door was opened again,
this time admitting Mr. Abner Stiles. His teeth were chattering, and
he stamped his feet upon the floor, and beat his hands against his
shoulders in old-fashioned country style.
“Moses Williams!” he cried. “I kinder think the North Pole must have
slid down an' come to stop in this 'ere town. I say, Strout, if that
organ of yourn was pumped to-night you'd have to play 'From Greenland's
Icy Mountains,' or some sech tune.”
“Where have you been?” asked Mr. Strout.
“Hain't been nowhere. Jes' came from the Pettingill house. Young Master
Sawyer wants some brown sugar to make some candy. Give me five pounds.”
“So it's Master Sawyer, is it?” said Strout as he weighed the saccharine
substance. “I thought it was Mister before a man was a Master.”
“I ain't a talkin' about men--he's only a boy, and a mighty smart boy
too.”
“I'm tired hearing about him,” said Strout. “Can't you give us something
new?”
“Yes, I kin,” said Abner. “Boys, I've got something funny to tell you. I
went to Cottonton this afternoon and I'd jest got back when they sent me
for the sugar.”
“What ye doin' over there?” asked Benoni.
Abner scratched his head then winked at Benoni.
“I went to buy somethin' for an individual who shall be nameless out of
respect--”
“Go on with your story,” shouted Strout. “You'd better hurry home with
that sugar or the 'Master' may make it hot for you.”
This remark caused a laugh at Abner's expense.
“Jes' go ahead, Abner,” said Benoni, “we're all a-waitin'.”
“Well, I met a feller on the train and he buzzed me all the way here.
He wanted to know where I lived, an' when I told him I lived in
Fernborough, that used to be a part of Eastborough, he jest piled me
full of questions. I told him all I knew--”
“An' added a little something” broke in Strout.
“No, I jest stuck close to the truth. He wanted to know about Mr. Quincy
Adams Sawyer. I told him he was dead, but he said he wanted to know
about him when he lived here. Then I told him there was a man in town
who could tell him more'n I could about that, an' I jest giv' him your
name, Obadiah.”
This sally turned the laugh on Strout who was about to make a sharp
rejoinder, when the store door opened and a strong current of cold air
caused all to turn.
“Shut the door!” cried Bob Wood in his gruff voice.
“I beg your pardon,” said the man, as he complied.
He was very tall,--more than six feet in height. He was dressed in a
suit of shiny black; his coat was buttoned tightly and the collar was
turned up. The most noticeable part of his costume was a broad-brimmed
straw hat. He wore no overcoat and his hands were ungloved.
“Gentlemen, I must beg pardon for this intrusion, but I used to live in
these parts many years ago, and I am here to inquire whether any of my
family are awaiting the return of a long-lost relative.”
Abner nudged Mr. Strout and said in a whisper: “That's the feller.”
“What might your name be?” asked Mr. Benoni Hill in his genial manner.
“I have occupied many stations in life, and whether high or low have
always assumed a cognomen to match my position.”
“A cog what?” asked Bill Cobb in a voice so low that he thought only his
brother Jim could hear; but his question reached the stranger's ear.
“By cognomen I mean a desirable _alias_ or a characteristic
appellation.”
This explanation gave rise to a chorus of “Oh's.”
“Kerzactly,” remarked Benoni, and then all laughed.
“When I left this town thirty years ago, my name was Richard Ricker. On
returning to those paths which my childish feet so often trod--I have
just come from the West Indies where the climate is hotter than that
stove--it seems appropriate that I should assume my family name. It is
done. I am now Richard Ricker.”
Abner nudged Strout again, who resented it, but Mr. Stiles remarked in a
whisper: “He's crazy--mad as a March hare.”
Mr. Ricker did not hear his opinion of his sanity.
“My father's name was Benjamin, Martha was my mother, and I had a
brother William--that is, I had them all when I ran away to sea at the
age of seventeen years, ten months, and fifteen days. I always remember
my exact age for I wished to know just how long I had been gone when I
got back.”
The villagers looked at the stranger with marked variations in
expression, but no one spoke until Abner remarked:
“I guess you've struck the right place. There's a young feller named
Billy Ricker that works for Mr. Strout here,” and he pointed to that
gentleman. “Billy's father was named Bill, but he's dead; so's Ben and
Marthy. I know'd 'em all.”
“I am glad to learn that I have a nephew in the land of the living.
Where is he?”
“He lives in Montrose, the next town north of us,” said Mr. Strout. “We
have a branch store there an' Billy has charge of it.”
“If he had some capital, I suppose he could become a partner,” remarked
Mr. Ricker.
“Not much,” said Strout. “We have all the money we need, and know where
to get more. What we want is men, an' we have a good one in Billy.”
Mr. Ricker removed his unseasonable headgear and moved nearer to the
stove.
“I have heard of the late Mr. Sawyer and was sorry to hear of his early
demise.” He looked at Abner, then at Mr. Strout.
“Your friend here has told me about his wonderful exploits--how he
thrashed the town bully, and beat the singing-master at his own game.”
Bob Wood and Strout glared at Abner.
“But his experiences, which I have been told have appeared in print,”
the stranger continued, “are trifling compared with the perils and
adventures which have fallen to my lot. I could make your blood run
cold.”
“Ef we open the front door, I guess the weather will do that,” said
Hiram, and it was the general opinion, though not verbally expressed,
that Hiram had got one on the stranger.
Mr. Emmanuel Howe, the clergyman's son, was noted for his extreme
politeness. He had attended one term at a divinity school before he met
Miss Dixie Schaffer. He arose from the nail-keg upon which he had been
sitting, and motioned for the stranger to take his place.
As he accepted the mute invitation, Mr. Ricker turned to the company and
said: “Gentlemen, shall I intrude upon your time if I relate just one of
my adventures?”
“Oh, go ahead,” said Strout. “It's our rule to let a man talk until we
get enough, and then--”
He raised his right foot, suddenly.
“I understand,” said Mr. Ricker. “When I was about twenty-two years old
our vessel was wrecked and I, the only one saved, was cast ashore on
a cannibal island--or, to be more correct ethnologically, an island
inhabited by cannibals. I was a handsome young fellow, and it is not
at all surprising that the Queen, who was young, unmarried, and,
fortunately, very pretty, fell in love with me and wished to become my
wife.
“But the Prime Minister, or Great Panjandrum, as he was called, wished
his son to marry the Queen and become King, so he, and his minions
planned to get rid of me.
“Lola-Akwa, that was the Queen's name, discovered the plot, and resolved
to save me.
“You all read your Bibles, and you will remember that in the olden days
there were places that were called 'Cities of Refuge.' On that island
there was a Tree of Refuge. It was at least one hundred feet high and
for two hundred feet from it, in every direction, not a tree or shrub
could be found. This open space gave the pursuers a fine chance for an
arrow shot before the refugee reached the tree.
“Lola-Akwa told me to climb to the top of that tree and stay there until
she sent word for me to come down.
“But the Great Panjandrum discovered my hiding place. The Queen declared
that I was protected by all that was sacred in their religion, but the
Great Panjandrum proved by the cannibal Bible that only cannibals were
entitled to its protection. He said they would roast a man, and if I
would eat him and pick his bones I might go free. I declined, for I am
rather particular about my diet.
“Then the Great Panjandrum seized an axe and struck at the foot of the
tree. Others followed his wicked example and it soon began to totter.
They next tied a rope about the trunk of the tree. The plotters were
sixteen in number--I counted them. They stood in line, tugging at the
rope.
“Lola-Akwa stood far back awaiting the terrible moment of my death. I
could see that her eyes were filled with tears. The tree fell, and I
went flying through the air--to certain death!
“When I came to, I found myself clasped in Lola-Akwa's arms. 'Where am
I?' I asked. 'Look' she said. I did, and learned the wonderful truth.
“The Great Tree had fallen upon the Great Panjandrum and his fifteen
conspirators and killed them all.”
For a moment there was silence, then a chorus of voices exclaimed: “Did
you marry the Queen?”
The stranger pressed his hand upon his forehead.
“No. If I remember correctly some one held an ace and took my Queen.”
He rose from the nail-keg.
“I'm hungry. I would like some supper and a bed for the night. To-morrow
I will embrace my only living relative. Is there a boarding house in
town?”
“Somethin' better'n that,” said Abner. “We've got a Hotel--the Hawkins
House. Mrs. Hawkins keeps it. I'm going along that way and I'll
interduce you. She's a pretty good talker herself,” and Abner winked
with both eyes as they went out.
“Well,” said Benoni, as the door closed after them. “The Bible says
Ananias was a pretty good story teller, but that gentleman seems to have
added some modern improvements.”
“He's a cussed liar,” said Bob Wood.
“And if Mrs. Hawkins is smart she'll make him pay in advance.”
The door was thrown open full width and two men rushed in.
“Have you seen him?” cried one.
“Seen who?” asked Strout.
“He's tall--black clothes--had on a straw hat--”
“Who in thunder is he?” cried Strout.
“He's a lunatic--just escaped from the asylum. We tracked him to this
town--”
“He's gone to the hotel,” said Bob Wood. “You can nab him easy there.
I'll show you the way.”
The men started on the run, led by Bob Wood, and followed by all who had
been enjoying the hospitality afforded by the soap-boxes, nail-kegs, and
the red-hot stove.
“What beats me,” said Hiram, “is how he knew all about the Ricker
family.”
“Simple enough,” said Strout with a sneer, “That ass Abner told him the
whole business. He never could keep his mouth shet. That's the reason I
wouldn't give him a job in this store.”
Mr. Strout extinguished some of the lights, locked the door, and resumed
his seat by the stove.
“Ain't you going home?” asked Hiram.
“Not jest yet; I've some thinkin' to do. I don't take much stock in
fightin' but I'd like to punch Abner Stiles' head.”
“What's he been doing?”
“Why, didn't you hear what he said he said to that crazy fellow about
Sawyer getting the best of me at my own game?”
“Wall, he told the truth, didn't he, Strout?”
“Look here, Mr. Hiram Maxwell, I want you to understand that if we are
to continue together as partners in this 'ere grocery business, there
must be mutual respect atween us.”
“Wall,” said Hiram, “I s'pose you mean by that, that ef I ain't what you
consider respec'ful to you, you'll get out and leave me the business.
You see, Obadiah, it's not for you or me to say who'll stay in--that's
for the trustees. So, I wouldn't lay down the law too fine, Obadiah.”
“Wall, I hoped,” said Strout, “that when that Sawyer married 'Zeke
Pettingill's sister and left this town that we'd be able to have a
little peace round here and run things our own way. Course, I don't want
any man to get drowned, but it wasn't my fault that the ship he was
on ran into another. He was allus runnin' into somethin' that didn't
concern him. But bein' he's gone, and no blame can be laid at my door, I
thought we'd heard the last of him, but since he's died the air's fuller
of Sawyer than it was afore. It makes me sick the way everybody tumbles
over themselves to make of that boy of his'n. I don't think there's much
to him.”
“He's got a big head, an' he's a mighty bright little fellow,” said
Hiram.
“Wall, then he resembles his father in one respect--_he_ had a big
head.”
“I'm surprised, Obadiah, to hear you talk the way you do. I ain't forgot
that meetin' in the Town Hall where you got up and owned up that he was
'bout right, and thet you'd been mean as dirt, but he shook hands with
you, and forgave you like a gentleman as he was, and I thought you were
good friends.”
“I'm good friends with anybody that keeps out of my way,” said Strout.
“But that Sawyer was like that _malary_ that the boys got off to war.
It gets into your blood and you can't get it out. Why, he snubbed 'Zeke
Pettingill jest the same as he did me when they had that sleigh ride,
and he didn't have spunk enough to hit back. If 'Zeke had jined in with
me we'd had him out o' town lively. And then the way he butted in at
my concert and turned a high-class musical entertainment inter a nigger
minstrel show by whistling a tune vas enough to make anybody mad clean
through.”
“Wall, you got mad, didn't you?” said Hiram. “What good did it do yer?”
Mr. Strout's newly aroused wrath was not appeased.
“Then again, the way he squeezed himself in at that surprise party.
Since I married Bessie Chisholm, I've talked to her a good many times
'bout the way she danced with him that night.”
“Come now, Strout, what did she say? She wasn't engaged to you then.
What did she say? Now be honest.”
Mr. Strout could not restrain a grim smile.
“Wall, to tell the truth, Hiram, she told me it was none of my business,
an' when I came to think it over I didn't believe it was--but it would
be now.”
Mr. Strout's vials of wrath had not all been emptied. He seemed to be
enjoying a rehearsal of all his past troubles and grievances.
“I guess that if the folks had known at first that the Jim Sawyer who
died in the Poor House was his uncle, they wouldn't have considered him
such great shucks after all. An' the way he tried to get Huldy Mason to
marry him and throw over 'Zeke Pettingill, who had loved her ever since
she was a baby, was a mighty mean piece of business in my opinion.”
This remark gave Hiram an opportunity which he was not slow in
improving.
“I heerd as how there was another feller in town who tried to get Huldy
to marry him and throw poor 'Zeke over.”
Mr. Strout puckered up his mouth and there was a strained look on
his face which indicated that the shot had gone home. But his verbal
ammunition was not all expended.
“You can tell me what you've a mind to, but I know that he tried mighty
hard to get Lindy Putnam to marry him, an' I don't imagine he'd have
taken up with a blind girl if he hadn't heard that Heppy Putnam was
going to leave her all her money. I had him looked up by some friends of
mine in the city. They said he didn't have much himself, but his father
paid his bills. His father jest gave him to understand that if he didn't
marry the right girl, with plenty of dough, he wouldn't get much from
him.”
“Wall, you may be right and you may be wrong, Obadiah. But when a man's
dead I don't think it does you any good to roast him and pick his bones.
It's too much like those _cannibiles_ that crazy feller told us about.
Quincy Adams Sawyer was always a good friend to me, and a better one
to you, Strout, than you deserved, judgin' from the way you've been
talkin'. His money has been the makin' of both on us, and while we do
business together I hope we'll let Mr. Sawyer, as the church folks say,
rest in pieces.”