The next morning, with much the same feeling that a convict must
experience when he enters upon a life imprisonment, Albert entered the
employ of “Z. Snow and Co., Lumber and Builders' Hardware.” The day,
he would have sworn it, was at least a year long. The interval between
breakfast and dinner was quite six months, yet the dinner hour itself
was the shortest sixty minutes he had ever known. Mr. Keeler had not yet
returned to his labors, so there was no instruction in bookkeeping;
but his grandfather gave him letters to file and long dreary columns of
invoice figures to add. Twice Captain Zelotes went out and then, just
as Albert settled back for a rest and breathing spell, Issachar Price
appeared, warned apparently by some sort of devilish intuition, and
invented “checking up stock” and similar menial and tiresome tasks to
keep him uncomfortable till the captain returned. The customers who came
in asked questions concerning him and he was introduced to at least
a dozen citizens of South Harniss, who observed “Sho!” and “I want to
know!” when told his identity and, in some instances, addressed him as
“Bub,” which was of itself a crime deserving capital punishment.
That night, as he lay in bed in the back bedroom, he fell asleep facing
the dreary prospect of another monotonous imprisonment the following
day, and the next day, and the day after that, and after that--and
after that--and so on--and on--and on--forever and ever, as long as
life should last. This, then, was to be the end of all his dreams, this
drudgery in a country town among these commonplace country people. This
was the end of his dreams of some day writing deathless odes and sonnets
or thrilling romances; of treading the boards as the hero of romantic
drama while star-eyed daughters of multi-millionaires gazed from the
boxes in spellbound rapture. This . . . The thought of the star-eyed
ones reminded him of the girl who had come into the office the afternoon
of his first visit to that torture chamber. He had thought of her many
times since their meeting and always with humiliation and resentment. It
was his own foolish tongue which had brought the humiliation upon him.
When she had suggested that he might be employed by Z. Snow and Co. he
had replied: “Me? Work HERE! Well, I should say NOT!” And all the time
she, knowing who he was, must have known he was doomed to work there. He
resented that superior knowledge of hers. He had made a fool of himself
but she was to blame for it. Well, by George, he would NOT work there!
He would run away, he would show her, and his grandfather and all the
rest what was what. Night after night he fell asleep vowing to run away,
to do all sorts of desperate deeds, and morning after morning he went
back to that office.
On the fourth morning the prodigal came home, the stray lamb returned
to the fold--Mr. Keeler returned to his desk and his duties. There was
a premonition of his return at the Snow breakfast table. For three days
Mrs. Ellis had swathed her head in white and her soul in black. For
three days her favorite accompaniment to conversation had been a groan
or a sigh. Now, on this fourth morning, she appeared without the bandage
on her brow or the crape upon her spirit. She was not hilarious but
she did not groan once, and twice during the meal she actually smiled.
Captain Lote commented upon the change, she being absent from table
momentarily.
“Whew!” he observed, in an undertone, addressing his wife. “If it ain't
a comfort to see the wrinkles on Rachel's face curvin' up instead of
down. I'm scared to death that she'll go out some time in a cold spell
when she's havin' one of them sympathetics of hers, and her face'll
freeze that way. Well, Albert,” turning to his grandson, “the colors'll
be h'isted to the truck now instead of half-mast and life'll be
somethin' besides one everlastin' 'last look at the remains.' Now we can
take off the mournin' till the next funeral.”
“Yes,” said Olive, “and Laban'll be back, too. I'm sure you must have
missed him awfully, Zelotes.”
“Missed him! I should say so. For one thing, I miss havin' him between
me and Issy. When Labe's there Is talks to him and Labe keeps on
thinkin' of somethin' else and so it don't worry him any. I can't do
that, and my eardrums get to wearin' thin and that makes me nervous.
Maybe you've noticed that Issy's flow of conversation ain't what you'd
call a trickle,” he added, turning to Albert.
Albert had noticed it. “But,” he asked, “what makes Rachel--Mrs.
Ellis--so cheerful this morning? Does she know that Mr. Keeler will be
back at work? How does she know? She hasn't seen him, has she?”
“No,” replied the captain. “She ain't seen him. Nobody sees him, far's
that goes. He generally clears out somewheres and locks himself up in
a room, I judge, till his vacation's over. I suppose that's one way to
have fun, but it ain't what I'd call hilarious.”
“Don't, Zelotes,” said Mrs. Snow. “I do wish you wouldn't call it fun.”
“I don't, but Laban seems to. If he don't do it for fun I don't know
what he does it for. Maybe it's from a sense of duty. It ain't to oblige
me, I know that.”
Albert repeated his question. “But how does she know he will be back
to-day?” he asked.
His grandmother shook her head. “That's the mysterious part about it,”
she whispered. “It makes a person think there may be somethin' in the
sympathetic notion she talks so much about. She don't see him at all and
yet we can always tell when he's comin' back to work by her spirits. If
he ain't back to-day he will be to-morrow, you'll see. She never misses
by more than a day. _I_ think it's real sort of mysterious, but Zelotes
laughs at me.”
Captain Lote's lip twitched. “Yes, Mother,” he said, “it's about as
mysterious as the clock's strikin' twelve when it's noon. _I_ know it's
morally sartin that Labe'll be back aboard to-day or to-morrow because
his sprees don't ever last more than five days. I can't swear to how
she knows, but that's how _I_ know--and I'm darned sure there's no
'sympathy' about my part.” Then, as if realizing that he had talked more
than usual, he called, brusquely: “Come on, Al, come on. Time we were on
the job, boy.”
Sure enough, as they passed the window of the office, there, seated on
the stool behind the tall desk, Albert saw the diminutive figure of the
man who had been his driver on the night of his arrival. He was curious
to see how the delinquent would apologize for or explain his absence.
But Mr. Keeler did neither, nor did Captain Snow ask a question. Instead
the pair greeted each other as if they had parted in that office at the
close of business on the previous day.
“Mornin', Cap'n Lote,” said Laban, quietly.
“Mornin', Labe,” replied the captain, just as calmly.
He went on and opened his own desk, leaving his grandson standing by
the door, not knowing whether to speak or offer to shake hands. The
situation was a little difficult, particularly as Mr. Keeler gave no
sign of recognition, but, after a glance at his employer's companion,
went on making entries in the ledger.
Captain Zelotes looked up a moment later. His gray eyes inspected
the pair and the expression on Albert's face caused them to twinkle
slightly. “Labe,” he said, “this is my grandson, Albert, the one I told
you was comin' to live with us.”
Laban turned on the stool, regarded Albert over his spectacles, and
extended a hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “Yes, yes . . . Yes, yes, yes. . .
Pleased to meet you. Cap'n Lote said you was comin'--er--er--Alfred.
Howdy do.”
They shook hands. Mr. Keeler's hand trembled a little, but that was
the only symptom of his recent “vacation” which the youth could notice.
Certain vivid remembrances of his father's bad humor on mornings
following convivial evenings recurred to him. Was it possible that this
odd, precise, dried-up little man had been on a spree for four days? It
did not seem possible. He looked more as if he might be expected to rap
on the desk and ask the school to come to order.
“Albert's goin' to take hold here with us in the office,” went on
Captain Lote. “You'll remember I spoke to you about that when we talked
about his comin'. Al, Labe--Mr. Keeler here--will start you in larnin'
to bookkeep. He'll be your first mate from now on. Don't forget you're
a fo'mast hand yet awhile and the way for a fo'mast hand to get ahead
is to obey orders. And don't,” he added, with a quiet chuckle, “do any
play-actin' or poetry-makin' when it's your watch on deck. Laban nor I
ain't very strong for play-actin', are we, Labe?”
Laban, to whom the reference was anything but clear, replied rather
vaguely that he didn't know as he was, very. Albert's temper flared
up again. His grandfather was sneering at him once more; he was always
sneering at him. All right, let him sneer--now. Some day he would be
shown. He scowled and turned away. And Captain Zelotes, noticing the
scowl, was reminded of a scowl he had seen upon the face of a Spanish
opera singer some twenty years before. He did not like to be reminded of
that man.
He went out soon afterward and then Laban, turning to Albert, asked a
few questions.
“How do you think you're goin' to like South Harniss, Ansel?” he asked.
Albert was tempted to reply that he, Keeler, had asked him that very
question before, but he thought it best not to do so.
“I don't know yet,” he answered, carelessly. “Well enough, I guess.”
“You'll like it fust-rate bimeby. Everybody does when they get used
to it. Takes some time to get used to a place, don't you know it does,
Ansel?”
“My name is Albert.”
“Eh? Yes, yes, so 'tis. Yes, yes, yes. I don't know why I called you
Ansel, 'less 'twas on account of my knowin' an Ansel Olsen once . . .
Hum . . . Yes, yes. Well, you'll like South Harniss when you get used to
it.”
The boy did not answer. He was of the opinion that he should die long
before the getting used process was completed. Mr. Keeler continued.
“Come on yesterday's train, did you?” he asked.
Albert looked at him. Was the fellow joking? He did not look as if he
was.
“Why no,” he replied. “I came last Monday night. Don't you remember?”
“Eh? Oh, yes . . . Yes, yes, yes . . . Last Monday night you come, eh?
On the night train, eh?” He hesitated a moment and then asked. “Cap'n
Lote fetch you down from the depot?”
Albert stared at him open-mouthed.
“Why, no!” he retorted. “You drove me down yourself.”
For the first time a slight shade of embarrassment crossed the
bookkeeper's features. He drew a long breath.
“Yes,” he mused. “Yes, yes, yes. I kind of thought I--yes, yes,--I--I
thought likely I did . . . Yes, yes, course I did, course I did. Well,
now maybe we'd better be startin' you in to work--er--Augustus. Know
anything about double-entry, do you?”
Albert did not, nor had he the slightest desire to learn. But before
the first hour was over he foresaw that he was destined to learn, if he
remained in that office, whether he wanted to or not. Laban Keeler might
be, and evidently was, peculiar in his ways, but as a bookkeeper he was
thoroughness personified. And as a teacher of his profession he was just
as thorough. All that forenoon Albert practiced the first principles
of “double entry” and, after the blessed hour for dinner, came back to
practice the remainder of the working day.
And so for many days. Little by little he learned to invoice and
journalize and “post in the ledger” and all the rest of the detail of
bookkeeping. Not that his instructor permitted him to do a great deal
of actual work upon the books of Z. Snow and Co. Those books were too
spotless and precious for that. Looking over them Albert was surprised
and obliged to admit a grudging admiration at the manner in which, for
the most part, they had been kept. Page after page of the neatest of
minute figures, not a blot, not a blur, not an erasure. So for months;
then, in the minor books, like the day-book or journal, would suddenly
break out an eruption of smudges and scrawls in the rugged handwriting
of Captain Zelotes. When he first happened upon one of these Albert
unthinkingly spoke to Mr. Keeler about it. He asked the latter what it
meant.
Laban slowly stroked his nose with his thumb and finger, a habit he had.
“I cal'late I was away for a spell then,” he said, gravely. “Yes,
yes . . . Yes, yes, yes. I was away for a little spell.”
He went soberly back to his desk. His new assistant, catching a glimpse
of his face, felt a pang of real pity for the little man. Of course the
reason for the hiatus in the books was plain enough. He knew about those
“little spells.” Oddly enough Laban seemed to feel sorry for them. He
remembered how funny the bookkeeper had appeared at their first meeting,
when one “spell” was just developing, and the contrast between the
singing, chirruping clown and the precise, grave little person at the
desk struck even his youthful mind as peculiar. He had read “Doctor
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” and now here was an example of something similar.
He was beginning to like Laban Keeler, although he was perfectly sure
that he should never like bookkeeping.
He did not slave at the books all the time, of course. For stretches,
sometimes lasting whole days, his slavery was of another sort. Then he
was working in the lumber yard with Issachar, or waiting on customers in
the hardware shop. The cold of winter set in in earnest now and handling
“two by fours” and other timber out where the raw winds swept piercingly
through one's overcoat and garments and flesh to the very bone was a
trying experience. His hands were chapped and cracked, even though his
grandmother had knit him a pair of enormous red mittens. He appreciated
the warmth of the mittens, but he hated the color. Why in the name of
all that was inartistic did she choose red; not a deep, rich crimson,
but a screeching vermilion, like a fireman's shirt?
Issachar, when he had the opportunity, was a hard boss. It suited Mr.
Price to display his superior knowledge and to find fault with his
helper's lack of skill. Albert's hot temper was at the boiling point
many times, but he fought it down. Occasionally he retorted in kind, but
his usual and most effective weapon was a more or less delicate sarcasm.
Issachar did not understand sarcasm and under rapid fire he was inclined
to lose his head.
“Consarn it!” he snapped, irritably, on one occasion. “Consarn it,
Al, why don't you h'ist up on t'other end of that j'ist? What do you
cal'late you're out here along of me for; to look harnsome?”
Albert shook his head. “No, Is,” he answered, gravely. “No, that
wouldn't be any use. With you around nobody else has a look-in at the
'handsome' game. Issy, what do you do to your face?”
“Do to it? What do you mean by do to it?”
“What do you do to it to make it look the way it does? Don't tell me it
grew that way naturally.”
“Grew! Course it grew! What kind of talk's that?”
“Issy, with a face like yours how do you keep the birds away?”
“Eh? Keep the birds away! Now look here, just--”
“Excuse me. Did I say 'birds,' Issy? I didn't mean birds like--like
crows. Of course a face like yours would keep the crows away all right
enough. I meant girls. How do you keep the girls away? I should think
they would be making love all the time.”
“Aw, you shut up! Just 'cause you're Cap'n Lote's grandson I presume
likely you think you can talk any kind of talk, don't ye?”
“Not any kind, Is. I can't talk like you. Will you teach me?”
“Shut up! Now, by Crimus, you--you furriner--you Speranzy--”
Mr. Keeler appeared at the office window. His shrill voice rose pipingly
in the wintry air as he demanded to know what was the trouble out there.
Mr. Price, still foaming, strode toward the window; Albert laughingly
followed him.
“What's the matter?” repeated Laban. “There's enough noise for a sewin'
circle. Be still, Is, can't you, for a minute. Al, what's the trouble?”
“Issy's been talking about his face,” explained Albert, soberly.
“I ain't neither. I was h'istin' up my end of a j'ist, same as I'm
paid to do, and, 'stead of helpin' he stands there and heaves out talk
about--about--”
“Well, about what?”
“Aw, about--about me and--and girls--and all sorts of dum foolishness.
I tell ye, I've got somethin' else to do beside listen to that kind of
cheap talk.”
“Um. Yes, yes. I see. Well, Al, what have you got to say?”
“Nothing. I'm sure I don't know what it is all about. I was working as
hard as I could and all at once he began pitching into me.”
“Pitchin' into you? How?”
“Oh, I don't know. Something about my looks he didn't like, I guess.
Wanted to know if I thought I was as handsome as he was, or something
like that.”
“Eh? I never neither! All I said was--”
Mr. Keeler raised his hand. “Seems to be a case for an umpire,” he
observed. “Um. Seem's if 'twas, seems so, seems so. Well, Captain Lote's
just comin' across the road and, if you say the word, I'll call him in
to referee. What do you say?”
They said nothing relevant to the subject in hand. Issachar made the
only remark. “Crimus-TEE!” he ejaculated. “Come on, Al, come on.”
The pair hurried away to resume lumber piling. Laban smiled slightly and
closed the window. It may be gathered from this incident that when the
captain was in charge of the deck there was little idle persiflage among
the “fo'mast hands.” They, like others in South Harniss, did not presume
to trifle with Captain Lote Snow.
So the business education of Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza progressed.
At the end of the first six weeks in South Harniss he had learned a
little about bookkeeping, a little about selling hardware, a little
about measuring and marking lumber. And it must be admitted that that
little had been acquired, not because of vigorous application on the
part of the pupil, but because, being naturally quick and intelligent,
he could not help learning something. He liked the work just as little
as he had in the beginning of his apprenticeship. And, although he was
forgetting his thoughts of running away, of attempting fortune on his
own hook, he was just as rebellious as ever against a future to be spent
in that office and at that work.
Outside the office and the hateful bookkeeping he was beginning to find
several real interests. At the old house which had for generations been
called “the Snow place,” he was beginning to feel almost at home. He
and his grandmother were becoming close friends. She was not looking for
trouble, she never sat for long intervals gazing at him as if she were
guessing, guessing, guessing concerning him. Captain Zelotes did that,
but Olive did not. She had taken the boy, her “Janie's boy,” to her
heart from the moment she saw him and she mothered him and loved him in
a way which--so long as it was not done in public--comforted his lonely
soul. They had not yet reached the stage where he confided in her to
any great extent, but that was certain to come later. It was his
grandmother's love and the affection he was already beginning to feel
for her which, during these first lonesome, miserable weeks, kept him
from, perhaps, turning the running away fantasy into a reality.
Another inmate of the Snow household with whom Albert was
becoming better acquainted with was Mrs. Rachel Ellis. Their real
acquaintanceship began one Sunday forenoon when Captain Zelotes and
Olive had gone to church. Ordinarily he would have accompanied them,
to sit in the straight-backed old pew on a cushion which felt lumpy and
smelt ancient and musty, and pretend to listen while old Mr. Kendall
preached a sermon which was ancient and musty likewise.
But this Sunday morning he awoke with a headache and his grandmother had
pleaded for him, declaring that he ought to “lay to bed” a while and get
over it. He got over it with surprising quickness after the church bell
ceased ringing, and came downstairs to read Ivanhoe in the sitting room.
He had read it several times before, but he wanted to read something and
the choice of volumes in the Snow bookcase was limited. He was stretched
out on the sofa with the book in his hand when the housekeeper entered,
armed with a dust-cloth. She went to church only “every other” Sunday.
This was one of the others without an every, and she was at home.
“What are you readin', Albert?” she asked, after a few' minutes vigorous
wielding of the dust-cloth. “It must be awful interestin', you stick at
it so close.”
The Black Knight was just then hammering with his battle-axe at the gate
of Front de Buef's castle, not minding the stones and beams cast
down upon him from above “no more than if they were thistle-down or
feathers.” Albert absently admitted that the story was interesting. The
housekeeper repeated her request to be told its name.
“Ivanhoe,” replied the boy; adding, as the name did not seem to convey
any definite idea to his interrogator's mind: “It's by Walter Scott, you
know.”
Mrs. Ellis made no remark immediately. When she did it was to the effect
that she used to know a colored man named Scott who worked at the hotel
once. “He swept out and carried trunks and such things,” she explained.
“He seemed to be a real nice sort of colored man, far as ever I heard.”
Albert was more interested in the Black Knight of Ivanhoe than the black
man of the hotel, so he went on reading. Rachel sat down in a chair by
the window and looked out, twisting and untwisting the dust-cloth in her
lap.
“I presume likely lots and lots of folks have read that book, ain't
they?” she asked, after another interval.
“What? Oh, yes, almost everybody. It's a classic, I suppose.”
“What's that?”
“What's what?”
“What you said the book was. A class-somethin' or other?”
“Oh, a classic. Why, it's--it's something everybody knows about,
or--or ought to know about. One of the big things, you know. Like--like
Shakespeare or--or Robinson Crusoe or Paradise Lost or--lots of them.
It's a book everybody reads and always will.”
“I see. Humph! Well, I never read it. . . . I presume likely you think
that's pretty funny, don't you?”
Albert tore himself away from the fight at the gate.
“Why, I don't know,” he replied.
“Yes, you do. You think it's awful funny. Well, you wouldn't if you knew
more about how busy I've been all my life. I ain't had time to read the
way I'd ought to. I read a book once though that I'll never forget. Did
you ever read a book called Foul Play?”
“No. . . . Why, hold on, though; I think I have. By Charles Reade,
wasn't it?”
“Yes, that's who wrote it, a man named Charles Reade. Laban told me that
part of it; he reads a lot, Laban does. I never noticed who wrote it,
myself. I was too interested in it to notice little extry things like
that. But ain't that a WONDERFUL book? Ain't that the best book you ever
read in all your LIFE?”
She dropped the dust-cloth and was too excited and enthusiastic to pick
it up. Albert did his best to recall something definite concerning Foul
Play. The book had been in the school library and he, who read almost
everything, had read it along with the others.
“Let me see,” he said musingly. “About a shipwreck--something about a
shipwreck in it, wasn't there?”
“I should say there was! My stars above! Not the common kind of
shipwreck, neither, the kind they have down to Setuckit P'int on the
shoals. No sir-ee! This one was sunk on purpose. That Joe Wylie bored
holes right down through her with a gimlet, the wicked thing! And that
set 'em afloat right out on the sea in a boat, and there wan't anything
to eat till Robert Penfold--oh, HE was the smart one; he'd find
anything, that man!--he found the barnacles on the bottom of the boat,
just the same as he found out how to diffuse intelligence tied onto a
duck's leg over land knows how many legs--leagues, I mean--of ocean. But
that come later. Don't you remember THAT?”
Albert laughed. The story was beginning to come back to him.
“Oh, sure!” he exclaimed. “I remember now. He--the Penfold fellow--and
the girl landed on this island and had all sorts of adventures, and fell
in love and all that sort of stuff, and then her dad came and took her
back to England and she--she did something or other there to--to get the
Penfold guy out of trouble.”
“Did somethin'! I should say she did! Why, she found out all about who
forged the letter--the note, I mean--that's what she done. 'Twas Arthur
Wardlaw, that's who 'twas. And he was tryin' to get Helen all the time
for himself, the skinner! Don't talk to me about that Arthur Wardlaw! I
never could bear HIM.”
She spoke as if she had known the detested Wardlaw intimately from
childhood. Young Speranza was hugely amused. Ivanhoe was quite
forgotten.
“Foul Play was great stuff,” he observed. “When did you read it?”
“Eh? When? Oh, ever and ever so long ago. When I was about twenty, I
guess, and laid up with the measles. That's the only time I ever was
real what you might call down sick in my life, and I commenced with
measles. That's the way a good many folks commence, I know, but they
don't generally wait till they're out of their 'teens afore they start.
I was workin' for Mrs. Philander Bassett at the time, and she says to
me: 'Rachel,' she says, 'you're on the mendin' hand now, wouldn't you
like a book to read?' I says, 'Why, maybe I would.' And she fetched
up three of 'em. I can see 'em now, all three, plain as day. One was
Barriers Burned Away. She said that was somethin' about a big fire.
Well, I'm awful nervous about fires, have been from a child, so I didn't
read that. And another had the queerest kind of a name, if you'd call it
a name at all; 'twas She.”
Albert nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “I've read that.”
“Have you? Well, I begun to, but my stars, THAT wasn't any book to give
to a person with nerve symptoms. I got as far as where those Indians or
whatever they was started to put red-hot kettles on folks's heads, and
that was enough for ME. 'Give me somethin' civilized,' says I, 'or not
at all.' So I commenced Foul Play, and I tell you I kept right on to the
end.
“I don't suppose,” she went on, “that there ever was a much better book
than that wrote, was there?”
Albert temporized. “It is a good one,” he admitted.
“Don't seem to me there could be much better. Laban says it's good,
though he won't go so far as to say it's the very best. He's read lots
and lots of books, Laban has. Reads an awful lot in his spare time. He's
what you'd call an educated person, which is what I ain't. And I guess
you'll say that last is plain enough without bein' told,” she added.
Her companion, not exactly knowing how to answer, was silent for a
moment. Rachel, who had picked up and was again twisting the dust-cloth,
returned to the subject she so delighted in.
“But that Foul Play book,” she continued, “I've read till I've pretty
nigh wore the covers off. When Mrs. Bassett saw how much I liked it
she gave it to me for a present. I read a little bit in it every little
while. I kind of fit the folks in that book to folks in real life, sort
of compare 'em, you know. Do you ever do that?”
Albert, repressing a chuckle, said, “Sure!” again. She nodded.
“Now there's General Rolleson in that book,” she said. “Do you know who
he makes me think of? Cap'n Lote, your grandpa, that's who.”
General Rolleson, as Albert remembered him, was an extremely dignified,
cultured and precise old gentleman. Just what resemblance there might
be between him and Captain Zelotes Snow, ex-skipper of the Olive S.,
he could not imagine. He could not repress a grin, and the housekeeper
noticed it.
“Seems funny to you, I presume likely,” she said. “Well, now you think
about it. This General Rolleson man was kind of proud and sot in his
ways just as your grandpa is, Albert. He had a daughter he thought all
the world of; so did Cap'n Lote. Along come a person that wanted to
marry the daughter. In the book 'twas Robert Penfold, who had been
a convict. In your grandpa's case, 'twas your pa, who had been a
play-actor. So you see--”
Albert sat up on the sofa. “Hold on!” he interrupted indignantly. “Do
you mean to compare my father with a--with a CONVICT? I want you to
understand--”
Mrs. Ellis held up the dust-cloth. “Now, now, now,” she protested.
“Don't go puttin' words in my mouth that I didn't say. I don't doubt
your pa was a nice man, in his way, though I never met him. But 'twan't
Cap'n Lote's way any more than Robert Penfold's was General Rolleson's.”
“My father was famous,” declared the youth hotly. “He was one of the
most famous singers in this country. Everybody knows that--that is,
everybody but Grandfather and the gang down here,” he added, in disgust.
“I don't say you're wrong. Laban tells me that some of those singin'
folks get awful high wages, more than the cap'n of a steamboat, he says,
though that seems like stretchin' it to me. But, as I say, Cap'n Lote
was proud, and nobody but the best would satisfy him for Janie, your
mother. Well, in that way, you see, he reminds me of General Rolleson in
the book.”
“Look here, Mrs. Ellis. Tell me about this business of Dad's marrying my
mother. I never knew much of anything about it.”
“You didn't? Did your pa never tell you?”
“No.”
“Humph! That's funny. Still, I don't know's as 'twas, after all,
considerin' you was only a boy. Probably he'd have told you some day.
Well, I don't suppose there's any secret about it. 'Twas town talk down
here when it happened.”
She told him the story of the runaway marriage. Albert listened with
interest and the almost incredulous amazement with which the young
always receive tales of their parents' love affairs. Love, for people of
his age or a trifle older, was a natural and understandable thing, but
for his father, as he remembered him, to have behaved in this way was
incomprehensible.
“So,” said Rachel, in conclusion, “that's how it happened. That's why
Cap'n Lote couldn't ever forgive your father.”
He tossed his head. “Well, he ought to have forgiven him,” he declared.
“He was dead lucky to get such a man for a son-in-law, if you ask me.”
“He didn't think so. And he wouldn't ever mention your pa's name.”
“Oh, I don't doubt that. Anybody can see how he hated Father. And he
hates me the same way,” he added moodily.
Mrs. Ellis was much disturbed. “Oh, no, he don't,” she cried. “You
mustn't think that, Albert. He don't hate you, I'm sure of it. He's
just kind of doubtful about you, that's all. He remembers how your pa
acted--or how he thinks he acted--and so he can't help bein' the least
mite afraid the same thing may crop out in you. If you just stick to
your job over there at the lumber yards and keep on tryin' to please
him, he'll get all over that suspicion, see if he don't. Cap'n Lote
Snow is stubborn sometimes and hard to turn, but he's square as a brick.
There's some that don't like him, and a good many that don't agree with
him--but everybody respects him.”
Albert did not answer. The housekeeper rose from her chair.
“There!” she exclaimed. “I don't know when I've set down for so long.
Goodness knows I've got work enough to do without settin' around
talkin'. I can't think what possessed me to do it this time, unless
'twas seein' you readin' that book.” She paused a moment and then said:
“Albert, I--I don't want you and your grandpa to have any quarrels. You
see--well, you see, I used to know your mother real well, and--and I
thought an awful sight of her. I wish--I do wish when you and the cap'n
have any trouble or anything, or when you think you're liable to have
any, you'd come and talk it over with me. I'm like the feller that Laban
tells about in his dog-fight yarn. This feller was watchin' the fight
and when they asked him to stop it afore one or t'other of the dogs
was killed, he just shook his head. 'No-o,' he says, kind of slow and
moderate, 'I guess I shan't interfere. One of 'em's been stealin' my
chickens and the other one bit me. I'm a friend to both parties,' he
says. Course I don't mean it exactly that way,” she added, with a smile,
“but you know what I do mean, I guess. WILL you talk things over with me
sometimes, Albert?”
His answer was not very enthusiastic, but he said he guessed so, and
Rachel seemed satisfied with that. She went on with her dusting, and he
with his reading, but the conversation was the first of many between the
pair. The housekeeper appeared to consider his having read her beloved
Foul Play a sort of password admitting him to her lodge and that
thereafter they were, in consequence, to be confidants and comrades. She
never hesitated to ask him the most personal questions concerning his
work, his plans, the friends or acquaintances he was making in the
village. Some of those questions he answered honestly and fully, some he
dodged, some he did not answer at all. Mrs. Ellis never resented his not
answering. “I presume likely that ain't any of my business, is it?” she
would say, and ask about something else.
On the other hand, she was perfectly outspoken concerning her own
affairs. He was nearly overcome with hilarious joy when, one day, she
admitted that, in her mind, Robert Penfold, the hero of Foul Play, lived
again in the person of Laban Keeler.
“Why, Mrs. Ellis,” he cried, as soon as he could trust himself to speak
at all, “I don't see THAT. Penfold was a six-footer, wasn't he?
And--and athletic, you know, and--and a minister, and young--younger, I
mean--and--”
Rachel interrupted. “Yes, yes, I know,” she said. “And Laban is little,
and not very young, and, whatever else he is, he ain't a minister. I
know all that. I know the outside of him don't look like Robert Penfold
at all. But,” somewhat apologetically, “you see I've been acquainted
with him so many years I've got into the habit of seein' his INSIDE.
Now that sounds kind of ridiculous, I know,” she added. “Sounds as if
I--I--well, as if I was in the habit of takin' him apart, like a watch
or somethin'. What I mean is that I know him all through. I've known him
for a long, long while. He ain't much to look at, bein' so little and
sort of dried up, but he's got a big, fine heart and big brains. He can
do 'most anything he sets his hand to. When I used to know him, when I
was a girl, folks was always prophesyin' that Laban Keeler would turn
out to be a whole lot more'n the average. He would, too, only for one
thing, and you know what that is. It's what has kept me from marryin'
him all this time. I swore I'd never marry a man that drinks, and I
never will. Why, if it wasn't for liquor Labe would have been runnin'
his own business and gettin' rich long ago. He all but runs Cap'n Lote's
place as 'tis. The cap'n and a good many other folks don't realize that,
but it's so.”
It was plain that she worshiped the little bookkeeper and, except during
the periods of “vacation” and “sympathetics,” was tremendously proud
of him. Albert soon discovered that Mr. Keeler's feeling for her was
equally strong. In his case, though, there was also a strong strain of
gratitude.
“She's a fine woman, Al,” he confided to his assistant on one occasion.
“A fine woman. . . . Yes, yes, yes. They don't make 'em any finer. Ah
hum! And not so long ago I read about a passel of darn fools arguin'
that the angels in heaven was all he-ones. . . . Umph! . . . Sho, sho!
If men was as good as women, Ansel--Alfred--Albert, I mean--we could
start an opposition heaven down here most any time. 'Most any time--yes,
yes.”
It was considerable for him to say. Except when on a vacation, Laban was
not loquacious.
Each Sunday afternoon, when the weather was pleasant, he came, dressed
in his best black cutaway, shiny at elbows and the under part of the
sleeves, striped trousers and a pearl gray soft hat with a black band,
a hat which looked as much out of place above his round, withered little
face as a red roof might have looked on a family vault, and he and the
housekeeper went for a walk.
Rachel, in her Sunday black, bulked large beside him. As Captain Zelotes
said, the pair looked like “a tug takin' a liner out to sea.”