BOYHOOD TO MANHOOD
Until he was fourteen years of age, young Quincy attended the public
schools in Fernborough and Cottonton. While in England he had had a
governess and later a tutor, so that when he reached America he was much
farther advanced than Fernborough boys of his own age. Methods in the
New England town were different, however, and his Uncle Ezekiel
was satisfied to have him keep pace with the others, and not arouse
antagonism by asking for any special promotion.
Ezekiel's son Quincy had decided to become a farmer, following in his
father's footsteps. But scientific farming was supplanting old methods,
and he had taken the course at the Agricultural College and received his
diploma.
Young Quincy wished a college education. To obtain admission it was
necessary for him to attend a preparatory school, and, relying upon Mr.
Gay's description of its advantages, Andover was selected.
While at the Cottonton High School, Quincy's chum had been a boy two
years older than himself, named Thomas Chripp. He was the son of a
weaver at Cottonton. Like Quincy, he had been born in England, but his
father had been drawn to America by the lure of higher wages, nothing
having been said to him, however, about the increased cost of living.
Thomas's father would not let him become a back-boy in the mill.
“I've breathed cotton all my life,” said Mr. Chripp to Ezekiel, “and I
think too much of my only boy to condemn him to a life in a hot room,
where the only music is the whizzing shuttles. No, my boy Tom shall
breathe God's fresh air and become a big, strong man instead of a
wizened-up little fellow like me. Why, would you believe it, Mr.
Pettingill, I began work in a cotton mill when I was eight years old,
and I've lived in one ever since--forty years! Sundays when I walk out
in the fields I can't get the din out of my ears, and I told Susan, my
old wife, the other day, that if I died before she did to have the lid
screwed down extra tight so I could be sure of a little quiet.”
“My nephew,” said 'Zekiel, “thinks a lot of your boy and wants him to go
to college with him.”
“But I haven't got the money to pay his way,” said Mr. Chripp.
“My nephew has plenty of money, and if he's willing to help your boy
along in the world there's nobody to object that I know of.”
So it was arranged that Tom Chripp should go to the preparatory school
and college with Quincy, the latter to pay the expenses of both. “'Twas
a lucky day for Tom that sent that Sawyer boy to school in Cottonton,”
said Mr. Chripp to his wife.
“It'll be the making of Tom,” he added, and the happy mother thought so
too.
When Mr. Strout heard of it, he remarked to his partner Mr. Maxwell,
“More of the arrogance of wealth. If I was a young man like Tom Chripp
I'd make my own way in the world.”
Hiram swallowed some smoke, coughed, and then replied: “Probably he
will, when he gits his eddikation. Money makes the mare go now as it
always has, Obadiah, an' you an' me can't stop it.”
“Like father, like son, I guess, Hiram. His father used to enjoy
throwing his money away an' the son's goin' to sail in the same boat.
I shouldn't be surprised if he came back to town some day and licked
somebody jest to be like his father.”
“I shouldn't nuther,” said Hiram as he began putting up an order for the
Hawkins House.
While Quincy was attending the public schools, Mrs. Nathaniel Sawyer
made two visits each year to Fernborough to learn of her grandson's
progress. Thanksgiving he passed at his Uncle 'Zekiel's where he had
eagerly watched the growth of the turkey that was destined to grace the
festal board on that day. At Christmas he went to Boston and returned
laden with gifts, many of which were immediately donated to his cousins
and Mandy Maxwell's children.
Mr. Strout's ire was kindled when Hiram described the presents his
children had received from Quincy.
“Thank the Lord I've got money enough to buy my children's presents
myself without dependin' on second-hand things that other folks don't
want.”
“So've I,” said Hiram, “but what I save that way I puts in the bank, for
I'm bound to own the old Pettingill Place some day.”
“Oh, spend your money, Hiram. Your rich friends will give you the house
some day.” He was so pleased with the subtle humour of his last remark
that he tossed a scoop half full of coffee into the sugar barrel, much
to Hiram's amusement.
During Quincy's first year at Andover he was twice called from his
studies. The Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer after his return home from a
bank directors' banquet was taken with an attack of acute indigestion.
He was in great pain. One of the most prominent physicians in the city
was summoned. He gave a strong hypodermic injection of morphine to
stop the pain, but did nothing to remove the cause. The pain itself
was stopped by the anodyne, but the cause of the pain--the
indigestion--stopped the beating of Mr. Sawyer's heart within an hour.
By his will, $250,000 were left to his daughter Florence, and $100,000
to his daughter Maude. To compensate for the $150,000 difference in the
bequests, the Hon. Nathaniel Sawyer's interest in the firm of Sawyer,
Crowninshield, and Lawrence was conveyed to Mr. Harry Merry, provided
that one-third of his share from the income of the law-business was paid
to the trustees of the estate of his grandson Quincy Adams Sawyer. The
remainder of his property, both real and personal, was left to his wife,
Sarah Quincy Sawyer.
Quincy's grandmother did not live long to enjoy her fortune. Maude
wished her to sell the Beacon Street house and come to Mount Vernon
Street. Her mother wished her to come to Beacon Street. While the
_pros_ and _cons_ were being considered, the old lady died of absolute
inanition. She had been dominated so long by a superior will power, she
had been so dependent upon her late husband in every event of her life,
that without him she was a helpless creature, and so willing to drop her
burden, that she did not cling to life but gave up without the semblance
of a struggle. Her last will and testament was very short, containing
but one clause, which gave all her property to her grandson Quincy Adams
Sawyer. When Aunt Ella heard of her sister's death, she said to Alice:
“They were not two distinct beings, Nathaniel was one and a half, and
Sarah only a half.”
“That boy will sure go to the devil now,” was Mr. Strout's comment.
“I don't think so,” said Hiram. “He's too much like his father.”
“How do you know where his father has gone?” snapped Mr. Strout, who did
not believe, evidently, that good works were a sure passport to future
bliss.
Quincy's vacation after his first year at Andover was passed at
Fernborough. He was warmly welcomed and congratulated upon the great
fortune that had fallen to him.
“He's got a big head, sure enough,” said Mr. Strout, “but I think he's
a little weak in the legs. He won't disgust the community by fightin' as
his father did.”
“I wish he'd thrash Bob Wood's son--he's too impudent to live,” said
Mrs. Amanda Maxwell, to whom Mr. Strout had addressed his remark.
“No danger o' that,” and Mr. Strout laughed gleefully. “Young Bob's as
good with his fists as his father was.”
“He didn't amount to much when Mr. Sawyer tackled him,” and with a
scornful laugh Mrs. Maxwell flounced out of the store.
“Your wife's as bad as the rest on 'em, Hiram.”
“Yes, Obadiah; it seems to be whoopedemic, as the doctors say.”
Quincy's second and third years at Andover passed quickly and again
vacation time had come.
“Let's go to Fernborough as usual,” said Quincy, and Tom, without
argument, seconded the motion. This time, Tom was Quincy's guest. They
were young men now. Quincy was seventeen and Tom nineteen, but the
fields were as green, the fruit as sweet, the vegetables as crisp and
fresh, and their friends as glad to see them as when they were children.
A year had brought some changes. Mrs. Maxwell mourned the loss of her
son Obadiah, who had been gored by an angry bull and found dead in the
West pasture. For a wonder, Mr. Strout showed some sympathy, perhaps
because the little boy was his namesake.
The Rev. Caleb Howe had passed away. In his place the church had called
the Rev. Hudson Quarles, a bachelor of forty, whose hobby was fancy
fowls. He joined the Grange and talked on “Poultry Raising” and “A Small
Fortune in Squabs.” His hens were the heaviest for their age in the
community, and to prove it he was always willing to “weigh up” at the
grocery store.
Mr. Strout called him a crank and played a joke on him that led to a
division in the church and came near costing Mr. Strout his position as
organist.
There were two scales on the long grocery counter. Mr. Strout tampered
with one of them by affixing two pounds of lead to it which he covered
with gold paint to hide the deception.
Bob Wood's hen was weighed in the fraudulent scales and beat Mr.
Quarles' by a half pound, the clergyman's being really a pound and
a half the heavier. The plot would have been a success but for the
keen-eyed Quincy who examined the scales and discovered the imposition.
Mr. Strout declared it was all a joke and that he was going to own up
when he got ready to do so. This explanation was accepted by some and
scoffed at by others. Naturally, Mr. Strout looked upon Quincy as a
meddler.
“By Godfrey!” he exclaimed to Hiram, “either that Sawyer boy or me has
got to leave town.”
“When are yer goin'?” asked Hiram, quietly, but he got no reply.
Miss Dixie Schaffer retired from the stage and settled down. Her
mother-in-law, being an invalid confined to her room, prevented any
interference in her household affairs, and she was free from suggestions
as to what she should give, and what she shouldn't give her son, who had
been named Hugh after her own father.
Many new people had moved into the town. Among the newcomers was a
former detective on the Boston police force named Horace Dana. Through
an injury received in making an important arrest, he had become a
cripple, able to get around only slowly and with crutches. He was a
widower with one daughter, about fifteen years of age, named Mary.
The young lady was as old in appearance as many girls of eighteen, and
her looks so belied her age, that the village beaux paid court to her at
once. Her most persistent suitor was young Bob Wood who had just reached
his majority.
As she was walking one day in the Center Road, far from any dwelling,
she met Bob. He improved the opportunity by asking her to be his wife.
“Why, Mr. Wood, I'm too young to marry.”
“But I'm just old enough,” said Bob, “and you suit me exactly.”
“Mr. Wood, I'm going to tell you the truth. I'm not yet fifteen years
old. Father says I can't have a beau till I'm eighteen, and I'm sure I
don't want one.”
Bob had learned much street slang during his visits to Cottonton, and
considered its acquisition a benefit and its use an accomplishment.
“You've said it. Now sneeze it, and dust your brain.”
Mary regarded him with astonishment. “I don't understand such language,
Mr. Wood. What do you mean? I haven't a cold in my head.”
Bob laughed insolently.
“No, but you've got a cold heart. What I meant by my French was that
you're bluffing. If you ain't eighteen, I'm a primary school boy.”
“Then you don't believe me!” Mary's blue eyes opened to their fullest
extent.
Bob thought those blue eyes and light brown hair, golden in the
sunlight, those rosy cheeks, and pretty mouth made a most attractive
picture, and, in his rough way, he really loved her.
“I'm going home,” said Mary, “and I shall tell my father you said I lied
to you.”
“No, you don't,” cried Bob, and he grasped her arm so tightly that she
winced. “You don't go until you promise me not to say anything to your
father.”
“I won't promise!” Hot tears filled her eyes.
“Then you don't go,” and Bob tightened his grip.
The next moment a hand clutched his coat collar and he was thrown
violently on his back.
Bob, who was agile, was quickly on his feet again and faced his
assailant. “Oh, that's you, Sawyer, is it? Why do you interfere with
what's none of your business?”
“I think it is,” said Quincy, calmly. “My, friend and I--” He turned,
and at that moment Tom emerged from behind a clump of bushes at the
roadside.
“My friend and I,” Quincy repeated, “were behind those bushes and
overheard your insulting language to this young lady and your brutal
treatment of her.”
“Hiding to see what you could hear,” said Bob, sneeringly.
“Not at all. We came 'cross lots and were just stepping into the road
when we espied you, and retreated, awaiting your departure.”
“Very prettily said, Master Sawyer, but I don't believe a word of it.”
“You called this young lady a liar and she was powerless to resent it,
but I'm not. Tom, hold my coat.”
“Oh, please don't fight,” pleaded Mary. “I'll never speak to him again.”
“Say, Quincy,” exclaimed Tom, “he's too heavily built for you. Let me
tackle him.”
“Two to one! I s'pose that's what you city snobs call fair play.”
Bob removed his coat and threw it on the ground. “If you'll come one at
a time, I'll lick you both.”
Quincy addressed Mary. “Don't be distressed. You may pardon his offence
to you if you choose, but I'm going to settle my personal account with
him. He doubted my word. I'm going to make him believe what I said, and
by that time he'll be ready to apologize to you.”
Bob squared off, but Quincy did not raise his hands.
“Are you 'fraid? Don't you know how to put up your dukes?”
“I'm not a boxer,” said Quincy, “if that's what you mean. I'll look out
for myself, rough and tumble.”
Bob rushed forward and aimed a blow at Quincy's face. It fell short, for
Quincy retreated; then, springing forward, he gave Bob a violent kick
on his left knee. As his opponent threw his right leg over to keep his
balance he was obliged to lean forward; Quincy caught him by the collar
and Bob went sprawling upon the ground. He leaped to his feet, red with
rage.
“Why don't you fight fair?” he bellowed.
“You fight your way and I'll fight mine,” was Quincy's reply.
“All right,” cried Bob, “I'll try your way.”
He sprang upon Quincy and grabbed him by the collar with both hands and
pulled him forward. This just suited Quincy, for, catching Bob around
the legs, he lifted him high in the air and threw him backwards over his
head. Bob's face was cut and bleeding, when he arose.
“Time's up,” cried Tom. “Three straight falls settle it.”
“The first one don't count,” growled Bob. “He sneaked in on me and I had
no show.”
“He's right, Tom,” said Quincy. “We'll have one more after this if he
wants it.”
This time Bob profited by having observed his antagonist's tactics. He
caught Quincy around the body and tried to crush him with his brawny,
muscular arms.
Tom gave a cry of alarm and came close to the wrestlers.
“Keep back, Tom,” cried Quincy. As he spoke he fell backwards, carrying
Bob with him, who gave a yell of exultation as Quincy's shoulders struck
the ground. His hold was relaxed while falling. Quincy doubled his legs
up, put both feet against Bob's stomach, gave him a violent kick, and
Bob was once more upon his back.
“'Twarn't fair,” he yelled. “I had him down first.”
“We weren't playing for points,” said Quincy, “and everything's fair in
rough and tumble. If you want some more, I'm ready.”
Bob stood sullenly, but made no move forward.
“Now, let's talk it over,” said Tom. “Do you think this young lady or
my friend lied to you? Before you answer, just remember this is my fight
now, and unless you take back the lie and apologize for what you said
and did to this young lady, I'll thrash you so they'll have to send a
wagon to carry you home.”
Bob did not speak.
“Quincy,” said Tom, “you go along with the young lady, and I'll settle
my account after you're gone. You look a little white around the gills.
You had no right to fight a heavy-weight like him.”
“I wish to thank you both,” said Mary, “but I'm a stranger in this
town--I have lived here only a few months, and--I don't know your
names.”
She blushed prettily and the lids modestly covered the blue eyes. The
three had moved along the road a short distance while she was speaking.
“My name is Quincy Adams Sawyer, and this is my friend and classmate at
Andover, Thomas Chripp.”
The lids were lifted but the blush deepened. “My name is Mary Dana. I
live with my father on Pettingill Street.”
“Why,” cried Quincy, “Ezekiel Pettingill is my uncle--I live with him.
I'm going home your way, and, with your permission, I will escort you to
your father's house.”
“All right, Quincy--you go ahead,” said Tom. “But you must excuse me.
I've kept Mr. Wood waiting.”
They were around a bend in the road by this time. When Tom returned
to the scene of the encounter, Mr. Wood was not in sight. Mr. Chripp
laughed, and paraphrased an old couplet.
“He who fights, then runs away,
Will have to fight some other day.”
Quincy walked beside Mary, but said little. He would not acknowledge
it, but the exertion had been too much for him. His knees felt weak,
his sight grew dim, and, before Mary was aware of his condition, he sank
upon the grass by the roadside.
She knelt beside him, took off his straw hat and fanned him. Then she
lifted his head upon her knee and fanned more vigorously. Her big blue
eyes were gazing at him when he opened his and looked up into her face.
Again, a rosy flush came to her cheeks.
“I'm better now,” said he. “I'm not very strong, but I can walk now.”
He got up with a show of vigour that did not deceive Mary.
“You rest here, and I'll send your uncle for you with a carriage.”
“By no means, Miss Mary, It was only a momentary feeling. Throwing him
over my head is what did it.”
“I'm so sorry you met Mr. Wood and me.”
“Well, I'm not, Miss Mary. Uncle 'Zeke told me that Bob Wood's father
used to be the town bully, and that my father, when they were both
young, gave him a good thrashing. I've watched Bob--we were in school
together, and he was always impudent and overbearing to me when I was
a little fellow. I've felt that some day we'd have it out together. I'm
glad it's over, and that I had the good fortune to serve you at the same
time.”
Mr. Dana thanked Quincy for his defence of his daughter from further
insult and perhaps injury.
“I've been in a good many scraps myself, Mr. Sawyer. For seventeen years
I was a member of the detective squad in Boston. I resigned because of
injuries received in a fight with some bank robbers,” and he pointed to
the crutches beside his chair, “and although they wanted me to stay at
police headquarters I wouldn't hang onto a job I couldn't do to my own
satisfaction.”
“I hope your daughter will have no further trouble with Mr. Wood.”
“No danger, Mr. Sawyer. She is going to boarding school very soon to
finish her education. Why, Mary, we have been very remiss. Can you not
offer Mr. Sawyer some refreshment?”
Mary smiled and ran from the room.
“You'll be lonely without her,” remarked Quincy.
“Yes, certainly, but I shall not be alone. It's a secret as yet, but the
fact is I'm going to marry a young lady who lives in Westvale, part of
Eastborough, you know, and I don't wish to force Mary to live with
a step-mother. I think they would agree all right, but my plan will
prevent any possible unpleasantness. I love them both too well to make
them, and myself, unhappy.”
Some dainty cakes, fruit, and cold well water were served in the dining
room. Quincy ate slowly, but his thoughts were not about the food. He
had shown little interest in the Fernborough girls with the exception of
those in the families of his relatives and closest friends. But he
was nearing the susceptible age, when, to a pure-minded boy, a girl
playmate, by some mysterious transformation, becomes an object of
admiration, and even veneration. That delicious mystery that surrounds
young womanhood was attracting him. Mary was the cause of his
newly-awakened interest, and soon a strong friendship sprang up between
the two.
When Hiram heard that Quincy had got the best of young Bob Wood he ran
back to the store and told his partner.
“Say, Strout, you can run the store for an hour or so. I must tell
Mandy. She'll be 'mos' tickled to death.”
Mr. Strout's disgust was shown in both voice and manner when Abner
Stiles came in.
“Say, Abner, is it true that Sawyer boy licked Bob?”
“I should say so,” said Abner. “He must have got an all-fired trouncing,
for his face looks like a raw beefsteak, an' one of the fellers said
he'd been spittin' blood.”
“Them Sawyers is brutes,” was Mr. Strout's comment. “I hope to the
Lord that he is the last one of that brood to come to this town. Their
money's the best part of 'em, but it ain't any better, when you come to
that, than other folkses.”