Outside of the gates of the Snow place Albert was making many
acquaintances and a few friends. After church on Sundays his grandmother
had a distressful habit of suddenly seizing his arm or his coat-tail as
he was hurrying toward the vestibule and the sunshine of outdoors, and
saying: “Oh, Albert, just a minute! Here's somebody you haven't met
yet, I guess. Elsie”--or Nellie or Mabel or Henry or Charlie or George,
whichever it happened to be--“this is my grandson, Albert Speranza.” And
the young person to whom he was thus introduced would, if a male, extend
a hesitating hand, give his own an embarrassed shake, smile uncertainly
and say, “Yes--er--yes. Pleased to meet you.” Or, if of the other sex,
would blush a little and venture the observation that it was a lovely
morning, and wasn't the sermon splendid.
These Sabbath introductions led to week-day, or rather week-evening,
meetings. The principal excitement in South Harniss was “going for the
mail.” At noon and after supper fully one-half of the village population
journeyed to the post office. Albert's labors for Z. Snow and Co.
prevented his attending the noon gatherings--his grandfather usually
got the morning mail--but he early formed the habit of sauntering “down
street” in the evening if the weather was not too cold or disagreeable.
There he was certain to find groups of South Harniss youth of both
sexes, talking, giggling, skylarking and flirting. Sometimes he joined
one or the other of these groups; quite as often he did not, but kept
aloof and by himself, for it may as well be acknowledged now, if it is
not already plain, that the son of Miguel Carlos Speranza had inherited
a share of his father's temperament and self-esteem. The whim of the
moment might lead him to favor these young people with his society, but
he was far from considering himself under obligation to do so. He had
not the least idea that he was in any way a snob, he would have hotly
resented being called one, but he accepted his estimate of his own worth
as something absolute and certain, to be taken for granted.
Now this attitude of mind had its dangers. Coupled with its possessor's
extraordinary good looks, it was fascinating to a large percentage of
the village girls. The Speranza eyes and the Speranza curls and nose
and chin were, when joined with the easy condescension of the Speranza
manner, a combination fatal to the susceptible. The South Harniss
“flappers,” most of them, enthused over the new bookkeeper in the lumber
office. They ogled and giggled and gushed in his presence, and he was
tolerant or bored, just as he happened to be feeling at the moment. But
he never displayed a marked interest in any one of them, for the very
good reason that he had no such interest. To him they were merely girls,
nice enough in their way, perhaps, but that way not his. Most of the
town young fellows of his age he found had a “girl” and almost every
girl had a “fellow”; there was calf love in abundance, but he was a
different brand of veal.
However, a great man must amuse himself, and so he accepted invitations
to church socials and suppers and to an occasional dance or party. His
style of dancing was not that of South Harniss in the winter. It was
common enough at the hotel or the “tea house” in July and August when
the summer people were there, but not at the town hall at the Red Men's
Annual Ball in February. A fellow who could foxtrot as he could swept
all before him. Sam Thatcher, of last year's class in the high school,
but now clerking in the drug store, who had hitherto reigned as the best
“two-stepper” in town, suddenly became conscious of his feet. Then, too,
the contents of the three trunks which had been sent on from school were
now in evidence. No Boston or Brockton “Advanced Styles” held a candle
to those suits which the tailor of the late Miguel Carlos had turned out
for his patron's only son. No other eighteen-year-older among the town's
year-around residents possessed a suit of evening clothes. Albert wore
his “Tux” at the Red Men's Ball and hearts palpitated beneath new muslin
gowns and bitter envy stirred beneath the Brockton “Advanced Styles.”
In consequence, by spring the social status of Albert Speranza among
those of his own age in the village had become something like this: He
was in high favor with most of the girls and in corresponding disfavor
with most of the young fellows. The girls, although they agreed that he
was “stand-offish and kind of queer,” voted him “just lovely, all the
same.” Their envious beaux referred to him sneeringly among themselves
as a “stuck-up dude.” Some one of them remembered having been told that
Captain Zelotes, years before, had been accustomed to speak of his hated
son-in-law as “the Portygee.” Behind his back they formed the habit
of referring to their new rival in the same way. The first time Albert
heard himself called a “Portygee” was after prayer meeting on Friday
evening, when, obeying a whim, he had walked home with Gertie Kendrick,
quite forgetful of the fact that Sam Thatcher, who aspired to be
Gertie's “steady,” was himself waiting on the church steps for that
privilege.
Even then nothing might have come of it had he and Sam not met in the
path as he was sauntering back across lots to the main road and home. It
was a brilliant moonlight night and the pair came together, literally,
at the bend where the path turns sharply around the corner of Elijah
Doane's cranberry shanty. Sam, plowing along, head down and hands in his
pockets, swung around that corner and bumped violently into Albert,
who, a cigarette between his lips--out here in the fields, away from
civilization and Captain Zelotes, was a satisfyingly comfortable place
to smoke a cigarette--was dreaming dreams of a future far away from
South Harniss. Sam had been thinking of Gertie. Albert had not. She had
been a mere incident of the evening; he had walked home with her because
he happened to be in the mood for companionship and she was rather
pretty and always talkative. His dreams during the stroll back alone
in the moonlight had been of lofty things, of poetry and fame and
high emprise; giggling Gerties had no place in them. It was distinctly
different with Sam Thatcher.
They crashed together, gasped and recoiled.
“Oh, I'm sorry!” exclaimed Albert.
“Can't you see where you're goin', you darned Portygee half-breed?”
demanded Sam.
Albert, who had stepped past him, turned and came back.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“I said you was a darned half-breed, and you are. You're a no-good
Portygee, like your father.”
It was all he had time to say. For the next few minutes he was too busy
to talk. The Speranzas, father and son, possessed temperament; also they
possessed temper. Sam's face, usually placid and good-natured, for Sam
was by no means a bad fellow in his way, was fiery red. Albert's, on the
contrary, went perfectly white. He seemed to settle back on his heels
and from there almost to fly at his insulter. Five minutes or so later
they were both dusty and dirty and dishevelled and bruised, but Sam was
pretty thoroughly licked. For one thing, he had been taken by surprise
by his adversary's quickness; for another, Albert's compulsory training
in athletics at school gave him an advantage. He was by no means an
unscarred victor, but victor he was. Sam was defeated, and very much
astonished. He leaned against the cranberry house and held on to his
nose. It had been a large nose in the beginning, it was larger now.
Albert stood before him, his face--where it was not a pleasing
combination of black and blue--still white.
“If you--if you speak of my father or me again like that,” he panted,
“I'll--I'll kill you!”
Then he strode off, a bit wobbly on his legs, but with dignity.
Oddly enough, no one except the two most interested ever knew of this
encounter. Albert, of course, did not tell. He was rather ashamed of it.
For the son of Miguel Carlos Speranza to conquer dragons was a worthy
and heroic business, but there seemed to be mighty little heroism in
licking Sam Thatcher behind 'Lije Doane's cranberry shack. And Sam did
not tell. Gertie next day confided that she didn't care two cents for
that stuck-up Al Speranza, anyway; she had let him see her home only
because Sam had danced so many times with Elsie Wixon at the ball
that night. So Sam said nothing concerning the fight, explaining the
condition of his nose by saying that he had run into something in the
dark. And he did not appear to hold a grudge against his conqueror; on
the contrary when others spoke of the latter as a “sissy,” Sam defended
him. “He may be a dude,” said Sam; “I don't say he ain't. But he ain't
no sissy.”
When pressed to tell why he was so certain, his answer was: “Because he
don't act like one.” It was not a convincing answer, the general opinion
being that that was exactly how Al Speranza did act.
There was one young person in the village toward whom Albert found
himself making exceptions in his attitude of serenely impersonal
tolerance. That person was Helen Kendall, the girl who had come into his
grandfather's office the first morning of his stay in South Harniss. He
was forced to make these exceptions by the young lady herself. When he
met her the second time--which was after church on his first Sunday--his
manner was even more loftily reserved than usual. He had distinct
recollections of their first conversation. His own part in it had not
been brilliant, and in it he had made the absurd statement--absurd in
the light of what came after--that he was certainly NOT employed by Z.
Snow and Co.
So he was cool and superior when his grandmother brought them together
after the meeting was over. If Helen noticed the superiority, she was
certainly not over-awed by it, for she was so simple and natural and
pleasant that he was obliged to unbend and be natural too. In fact,
at their third meeting he himself spoke of the interview in the
lumber office and again expressed his thanks for warning him of his
grandfather's detestation of cigarettes.
“Gee!” he exclaimed, “I'm certainly glad that you put me on to the old
boy's feelings. I think he'd have murdered me if he had come back and
found me puffing a Pall Mall in there.”
She smiled. “He does hate them, doesn't he?” she said.
“Hate them! I should say he did. Hating cigarettes is about the only
point where he and Issy get along without an argument. If a traveler for
a hardware house comes into the office smoking a cig, Issy opens all the
windows to let the smell out, and Grandfather opens the door to throw
the salesman out. Well, not exactly to throw him out, of course, but he
never buys a single cent's worth of a cigarette smoker.”
Helen glanced at him. “You must be awfully glad you're not a traveling
salesman,” she said demurely.
Albert did not know exactly what to make of that remark. He, in his
turn, looked at her, but she was grave and quite unconcerned.
“Why?” he asked, after a moment.
“Why--what?”
“Why ought I to be glad I'm not a traveling salesman?”
“Oh, I don't know. It just seemed to me that you ought, that's all.”
“But why?”
“Well, if you were you wouldn't make a great hit with your grandfather,
would you?”
“Eh? . . . Oh, you mean because I smoke. Say, YOU'RE not silly enough to
be down on cigarettes the way grandfather is, are you?”
“No-o, I'm not down on them, especially. I'm not very well acquainted
with them.”
“Neither is he. He never smoked one in his life. It's just country
prejudice, that's all.”
“Well, I live in the country, too, you know.”
“Yes, but you're different.”
“How do you know I am?”
“Oh, because any one can see you are.” The manner in which this remark
was made, a manner implying a wide knowledge of humanity and a hint of
personal interest and discriminating appreciation, had been found quite
effective by the precocious young gentleman uttering it. With variations
to suit the case and the individual it had been pleasantly received by
several of the Misses Bradshaw's pupils. He followed it with another
equally tried and trustworthy.
“Say,” he added, “would YOU rather I didn't smoke?”
The obvious reply should have been, “Oh, would you stop if I asked you
to?” But Helen Kendall was a most disconcerting girl. Instead of purring
a pleased recognition of the implied flattery, she laughed merrily. The
Speranza dignity was hurt.
“What is there to laugh at?” he demanded. “Are you laughing at me?”
The answer was as truthful as truth itself.
“Why, of course I am,” she replied; and then completed his discomfiture
by adding, “Why should I care whether you smoke or not? You had better
ask your grandfather that question, I should think.”
Now Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza had not been accustomed to this sort
of treatment from young persons of the other sex, and he walked away in
a huff. But the unusual is always attractive, and the next time he and
Miss Kendall met he was as gracious and cordial as ever. But it was
not long before he learned that the graciousness was, in her case, a
mistake. Whenever he grew lofty, she took him down, laughed at him with
complete frankness, and refused to treat him as anything but a boy. So
they gradually grew friendly, and when they met at parties or church
socials he spent most of the time in her company, or, rather, he would
have so spent it had she permitted. But she was provokingly impartial
and was quite as likely to refuse a dance with him to sit out one
with Sam Thatcher or Ben Hammond or any other village youth of her
acquaintance. However, although she piqued and irritated him, he was
obliged to admit to his inner consciousness that she was the most
interesting person he had yet discovered in South Harniss, also that
even in the eyes of such connoisseurs as his fellow members of the
senior class at school she would have been judged a “good looker,” in
spite of her country clothes.
He met her father, of course. The Reverend Mr. Kendall was a dreamy
little old gentleman with white hair and the stooped shoulders of a
student. Everybody liked him, and it was for that reason principally
that he was still the occupant of the Congregational pulpit, for to
quote Captain Zelotes, his sermons were inclined to be like the sandy
road down to Setuckit Point, “ten mile long and dry all the way.” He was
a widower and his daughter was his companion and managing housekeeper.
There was a half-grown girl, one of the numerous Price family, a cousin
of Issachar's, who helped out with the sweeping, dish-washing and
cooking, but Helen was the real head of the household.
“And she's a capable one, too,” declared Mrs. Snow, when at supper one
evening Helen's name had come into the conversation. “I declare when I
was there yesterday to see the minister about readin' poetry to us at
sewin'-circle next Monday that parlor was as neat as wax. And 'twas all
Helen's work that kept it so, that was plain enough. You could see her
way of settin' a vase or puttin' on a table cloth wherever you looked.
Nobody else has just that way. And she does it after school or before
school or 'most any odd time. And whatever 'tis is done right.”
The housekeeper put in a word. “There's no doubt about that,” she said,
“and there ain't any more doubt that she don't get much help from her pa
or that Maria B.” There were so many Prices within the township limits
that individuals were usually distinguished by their middle initial. “As
for Mr. Kendall,” went on Rachel, “he moves with his head in the clouds
and his feet cruisin' with nobody at the wheel two-thirds of the time.
Emma Smith says to me yesterday, says she, 'Mr. Kendall is a saint on
earth, ain't he,' says she. 'Yes,' says I, 'and he'll be one in heaven
any minute if he goes stumblin' acrost the road in front of Doctor
Holliday's automobile the way I see him yesterday.' The doctor put on
the brakes with a slam and a yell. The minister stopped right there in
the middle of the road with the front wheels of that auto not MORE'N two
foot from his old baggy trousers' knees, and says he, 'Eh? Did you want
me, Doctor?' The doctor fetched a long breath. 'Why, no, Mr. Kendall,'
he says, 'I didn't, but I come darn nigh gettin' you.' I don't know what
WOULD become of him if he didn't have Helen to look out for him.”
As they came to know each other better their conversation dealt with
matters more personal. They sometimes spoke of plans for the future.
Albert's plans and ambitions were lofty, but rather vague. Helen's
were practical and definite. She was to graduate from high school that
spring. Then she was hoping to teach in the primary school there in the
village; the selectmen had promised her the opportunity.
“But, of course,” she said, “I don't mean to stay here always. When I
can, after I have saved some money and if Father doesn't need me
too badly, I shall go away somewhere, to Bridgewater, or perhaps to
Radcliffe, and study. I want to specialize in my teaching, you know.”
Albert regarded her with amused superiority.
“I don't see why on earth you are so anxious to be a school-marm,” he
said. “That's the last job I'd want.”
Her answer was given promptly, but without the least trace of temper.
That was one of the most provoking things about this girl, she would not
lose her temper. He usually lost his trying to make her. She spoke now,
pleasantly, and deliberately, but as if she were stating an undesirable
fact.
“I think it would be the last one you would get,” she said.
“Why? Great Scott! I guess I could teach school if I wanted to. But you
bet I wouldn't want to! . . . NOW what are you laughing at?”
“I'm not laughing.”
“Yes, you are. I can always tell when you're laughing; you get that look
in your eyes, that sort of--of--Oh, I can't tell you what kind of look
it is, but it makes me mad. It's the same kind of look my grandfather
has, and I could punch him for it sometimes. Why should you and he think
I'm not going to amount to anything?”
“I don't think so. And I'm sure he doesn't either. And I wasn't laughing
at you. Or, if I was, it--it was only because--”
“Well, because what?”
“Oh, because you are so AWFULLY sure you know--well, know more than most
people.”
“Meaning I'm stuck on myself, I suppose. Well, now I tell you I'm
not going to hang around in this one-horse town all my life to please
grandfather or any one else.”
When he mentioned his determination to win literary glory she was always
greatly interested. Dreams of histrionic achievement were more coldly
received. The daughter of a New England country clergyman, even in these
days of broadening horizons, could scarcely be expected to look with
favor upon an actor's career.
June came and with it the first of the summer visitors. For the next
three months Albert was happy with a new set of acquaintances. They were
HIS kind, these young folks from the city, and his spare moments were
for the most part spent in their society. He was popular with them, too.
Some of them thought it queer that he should be living all the year in
the village and keeping books for a concern like Z. Snow and Co., but
juvenile society is tolerant and a youth who could sing passably, dance
wonderfully and, above all, was as beautifully picturesque as Albert
Speranza, was welcomed, especially by the girls. So the Saturdays and
Sundays and evenings of that summer were pleasant for him. He saw little
of Helen or Gertie Kendrick while the hotel or the cottages remained
open.
Then came the fall and another long, dreary winter. Albert plodded on at
his desk or in the yard, following Mr. Keeler's suggestions, obeying his
grandfather's orders, tormenting Issy, doing his daily stint because he
had to, not because he liked it. For amusement he read a good deal, went
to the usual number of sociables and entertainments, and once took part
in amateur theatricals, a play given by the church society in the
town hall. There was where he shone. As the dashing young hero he was
resplendent. Gertie Kendrick gazed upon him from the third settee
center with shining eyes. When he returned home after it was over his
grandmother and Mrs. Ellis overwhelmed him with praises.
“I declare you was perfectly splendid, Albert!” exclaimed Olive. “I was
so proud of you I didn't know what to do.”
Rachel looked upon him as one might look upon a god from Olympus.
“All I could think of was Robert Penfold,” she said. “I says so to
Laban: 'Laban,' says I, ain't he Robert Penfold and nobody else?' There
you was, tellin' that Hannibal Ellis that you was innocent and some day
the world would know you was, just the way Robert Penfold done in the
book. I never did like that Hannie Ellis!”
Mrs. Snow smiled. “Mercy, Rachel,” she said, “I hope you're not blamin'
Hannie because of what he did in that play. That was his part, he had to
do it.”
But Rachel was not convinced. “He didn't have to be so everlastin' mean
and spiteful about it, anyhow,” she declared. “But there, that family
of Ellises never did amount to nothin' much. But, as I said to Laban,
Albert, you was Robert Penfold all over.”
“What did Labe say to that?” asked Albert, laughing.
“He never had a chance to say nothin'. Afore he could answer, that Maria
B. Price--she was settin' right back of me and eatin' molasses candy out
of a rattly paper bag till I thought I SHOULD die--she leaned forward
and she whispered: 'He looks more to me like that Stevie D. that used to
work for Cap'n Crowell over to the Center. Stevie D. had curly hair like
that and HE was part Portygee, you remember; though there was a little
nigger blood in him, too,' she says. I could have shook her! And then
she went to rattlin' that bag again.”
Even Mr. Keeler congratulated him at the office next morning. “You done
well, Al,” he said. “Yes--yes--yes. You done fust-rate, fust-rate.”
His grandfather was the only one who refused to enthuse.
“Well,” inquired Captain Zelotes, sitting down at his desk and glancing
at his grandson over his spectacles, “do you cal'late to be able to get
down to earth this mornin' far enough to figger up the payroll? You can
put what you made from play-actin' on a separate sheet. It's about as
much as the average person makes at that job,” he added.
Albert's face flushed. There were times when he hated his grandfather.
Mr. Keeler, a moment later, put a hand on his shoulder.
“You mustn't mind the old man, Al,” he whispered. “I expect that seein'
you last night brought your dad's job back to him strong. He can't bear
play-actin', you know, on your dad's account. Yes--yes. That was it.
Yes--yes--yes.”
It may have been a truthful explanation, but as an apology it was a
limited success.
“My father was a gentleman, at any rate,” snapped Albert. Laban opened
his mouth to reply, but closed it again and walked back to his books.
In May, which was an unusually balmy month, the Congregational Sunday
School gave an automobile excursion and box-luncheon party at High Point
Light down at Trumet. As Rachel Ellis said, it was pretty early for
picnickin', but if the Almighty's season was ahead of time there didn't
seem to be any real good reason why one of his Sunday schools shouldn't
be. And, which was the principal excuse for the hurry, the hotel busses
could be secured, which would not be the case after the season opened.
Albert went to the picnic. He was not very keen on going, but his
grandfather had offered him a holiday for the purpose, and it was one
of his principles never to refuse a chance to get away from that office.
Besides, a number of the young people of his age were going, and Gertie
Kendrick had been particularly insistent.
“You just MUST come, Al,” she said. “It won't be any fun at all if you
don't come.”
It is possible that Gertie found it almost as little fun when he
did come. He happened to be in one of his moods that day; “Portygee
streaks,” his grandfather termed these moods, and told Olive that they
were “that play-actor breakin' out in him.” He talked but little during
the ride down in the bus, refused to sing when called upon, and, after
dinner, when the dancing in the pavilion was going on, stepped quietly
out of the side door and went tramping along the edge of the bluff,
looking out over the sea or down to the beach, where, one hundred and
fifty feet below, the big waves were curling over to crash into a creamy
mass of froth and edge the strand with lacy ripples.
The high clay bluffs of Trumet are unique. No other part of the Cape
shows anything just like them. High Point Light crowns their highest
and steepest point and is the flashing beacon the rays of which spell
“America” to the incoming liner Boston bound.
Along the path skirting the edge of the bluff Albert strolled, his hands
in his pockets and his thoughts almost anywhere except on the picnic
and the picnickers of the South Harniss Congregational Church. His
particular mood on this day was one of discontent and rebellion against
the fate which had sentenced him to the assistant bookkeeper's position
in the office of Z. Snow and Co. At no time had he reconciled himself to
the idea of that position as a permanent one; some day, somehow he was
going to break away and do--marvelous things. But occasionally, and
usually after a disagreeable happening in the office, he awoke from his
youthful day dreams of glorious futures to a realization of the dismal
to-day.
The happening which had brought about realization in this instance was
humorous in the eyes of two-thirds of South Harniss's population. They
were chuckling over it yet. The majority of the remaining third were
shocked. Albert, who was primarily responsible for the whole affair, was
neither amused nor shocked; he was angry and humiliated.
The Reverend Seabury Calvin, of Providence, R. I., had arrived in town
and opened his summer cottage unusually early in the season. What
was quite as important, Mrs. Seabury Calvin had arrived with him. The
Reverend Calvin, whose stay was in this case merely temporary, was
planning to build an addition to his cottage porch. Mrs. Calvin, who was
the head of the summer “Welfare Workers,” whatever they were, had called
a meeting at the Calvin house to make Welfare plans for the season.
The lumber for the new porch was ordered of Z. Snow and Co. The Reverend
Calvin ordered it himself in person. Albert received the order.
“I wish this delivered to-morrow without fail,” said Mr. Calvin. Albert
promised.
But promises are not always easy to keep. One of Z. Snow and Co.'s teams
was busy hauling lumber for the new schoolhouse at Bayport. The other
Issachar had commandeered for deliveries at Harniss Center and refused
to give up his claim. And Laban Keeler, as it happened, was absent
on one of his “vacations.” Captain Zelotes was attending a directors'
meeting at Osham and from there was going to Boston for a day's stay.
“The ship's in your hands, Al,” he had said to his grandson. “Let me see
how you handle her.”
So, in spite of Albert's promise, the Calvin lumber was not delivered on
time. The Reverend gentleman called to ask why. His manner was anything
but receptive so far as excuses were concerned.
“Young man,” he said loftily, “I am accustomed to do business with
business people. Did you or did you not promise to deliver my order
yesterday?”
“Why, yes sir, I promised, but we couldn't do it. We--”
“I don't care to know why you didn't do it. The fact that you did not is
sufficient. Will that order of mine be delivered to-day?”
“If it is a possible thing, Mr. Calvin, it--”
“Pardon me. Will it be delivered?”
The Speranza temper was rising. “Yes,” said the owner of that temper,
succinctly.
“Does yes mean yes, in this case; or does it mean what it meant before?”
“I have told you why--”
“Never mind. Young man, if that lumber is not delivered to-day I shall
cancel the order. Do you understand?”
Albert swallowed hard. “I tell you, Mr. Calvin, that it shall be
delivered,” he said. “And it will be.”
But delivering it was not so easy. The team simply could NOT be taken
off the schoolhouse job, fulfillment of a contract was involved there.
And the other horse had gone lame and Issachar swore by all that was
solemn that the animal must not be used.
“Let old Calvin wait till to-morrow,” said Issy. “You can use the big
team then. And Cap'n Lote'll be home, besides.”
But Albert was not going to let “old Calvin” wait. That lumber was going
to be delivered, if he had to carry it himself, stick by stick. He asked
Mr. Price if an extra team might not be hired.
“Ain't none,” said Issy. “Besides, where'd your granddad's profits be
if you spent money hirin' extry teams to haul that little mite of stuff?
I've been in this business a good long spell, and I tell you--”
He did not get a chance to tell it, for Albert walked off and left him.
At half-past twelve that afternoon he engaged “Vessie” Young--christened
Sylvester Young and a brother to the driver of the depot wagon--to
haul the Calvin lumber in his rickety, fragrant old wagon. Simpson
Mullen--commonly called “Simp”--was to help in the delivery.
Against violent protests from Issy, who declared that Ves Young's
rattle-trap wan't fit to do nothin' but haul fish heads to the
fertilizer factory, the Calvin beams and boards were piled high on
the wagon and with Ves on the driver's seat and Simp perched, like a
disreputable carrion crow on top of the load, the equipage started.
“There!” exclaimed Albert, with satisfaction. “He can't say it wasn't
delivered this time according to promise.”
“Godfreys!” snorted Issy, gazing after the departing wagon. “He won't be
able to say nothin' when he sees that git-up--and smells it. Ves carts
everything in that cart from dead cows to gurry barrels. Whew! I'd
hate to have to set on that porch when 'twas built of that lumber. And,
unless I'm mistook, Ves and Simp had been havin' a little somethin'
strong to take, too.”
Mr. Price, as it happened, was not “mistook.” Mr. Young had, as the
South Harniss saying used to be, “had a jug come down” on the train from
Boston that very morning. The jug was under the seat of his wagon and
its contents had already been sampled by him and by Simp. The journey to
the Calvin cottage was enlivened by frequent stops for refreshment.
Consequently it happened that, just as Mrs. Calvin's gathering of
Welfare Workers had reached the cake and chocolate stage in their
proceedings and just as the Reverend Mr. Calvin had risen by invitation
to say a few words of encouragement, the westerly wind blowing in at
the open windows bore to the noses and ears of the assembled faithful a
perfume and a sound neither of which was sweet.
Above the rattle and squeak of the Young wagon turning in at the Calvin
gate arose the voices of Vessie and Simp uplifted in song.
“'Here's to the good old whiskey, drink 'er daown,'” sang Mr. Young.
“'Here's to the good old whiskey,
Drink 'er daown!
Here's to the good old whiskey,
It makes you feel so frisky,
Drink 'er--'
Git up there, blank blank ye! What the blankety blank you stoppin' here
for? Git up!”
The horse was not the only creature that got up. Mrs. Calvin rose from
her chair and gazed in horror at the window. Her husband, being already
on his feet, could not rise but he broke off short the opening sentence
of his “few words” and stared and listened. Each Welfare Worker stared
and listened also.
“Git up, you blankety blank blank,” repeated Ves Young, with cheerful
enthusiasm. Mr. Mullen, from the top of the load of lumber, caroled
dreamily on:
“'Here's to the good old rum,
Drink 'er daown!
Here's to the good old rum,
Drink 'er daown!
Here's to the good old rum,
Ain't you glad that you've got some?
Drink 'er daown! Drink 'er daown!
Drink 'er daown!'”
And floating, as it were, upon the waves of melody came the odor of the
Young wagon, an odor combining deceased fish and late lamented cow and
goodness knows what beside.
The dissipated vehicle stopped beneath the parlor windows of the Calvin
cottage. Mr. Young called to his assistant.
“Here we be, Simp!” he yelled. “A-a-ll ashore that's goin' ashore! Wake
up there, you unmentionably described old rum barrel and help unload
this everlastingly condemned lumber.”
Mr. Calvin rushed to the window. “What does this mean?” he demanded, in
frothing indignation.
Vessie waved at him reassuringly. “'Sall right, Mr. Calvin,” he shouted.
“Here's your lumber from Ze-lotes Snow and Co., South Harniss, Mass., U.
S. A. 'Sall right. Let 'er go, Simp! Let 'er blankety-blank go!”
Mr. Mullen responded with alacrity and a whoop. A half dozen boards
crashed to the ground beneath the parlor windows. Mrs. Calvin rushed to
her husband's side.
“This is DREADFUL, Seabury!” she cried. “Send those creatures and--and
that horrible wagon away at once.”
The Reverend Calvin tried to obey orders. He commanded Mr. Young to go
away from there that very moment. Vessie was surprised.
“Ain't this your lumber?” he demanded.
“It doesn't make any difference whether it is or not, I--”
“Didn't you tell Z. Snow and Co. that this lumber'd got to be delivered
to-day or you'd cancel the order?”
“Never mind. That is my business, sir. You--”
“Hold on! Ho-o-ld on! _I_ got a business, too. My business is deliverin'
what I'm paid to deliver. Al Speranzy he says to me: 'Ves,' he says, 'if
you don't deliver that lumber to old man Calvin to-day you don't get no
money, see. Will you deliver it?' Says I, 'You bet your crashety-blank
life I'll (hic) d'liver it! What I say I'll do, I'll do!' And I'm
deliverin' it, ain't I? Hey? Ain't I? Well, then, what the--” And so
forth and at length, while Mrs. Calvin collapsed half fainting in an
easy-chair, and horrified Welfare Workers covered their ears--and longed
to cover their noses.
The lumber was delivered that day. Its delivery was, from the viewpoint
of Messrs. Young and Mullen, a success. The spring meeting of the
Welfare Workers was not a success.
The following day Mr. Calvin called at the office of Z. Snow and Co. He
had things to say and said them. Captain Zelotes, who had returned from
Boston, listened. Then he called his grandson.
“Tell him what you've just told me, Mr. Calvin,” he said.
The reverend gentleman told it, with added details.
“And in my opinion, if you'll excuse me, Captain Snow,” he said, in
conclusion, “this young man knew what he was doing when he sent those
drunken scoundrels to my house. He did it purposely, I am convinced.”
Captain Zelotes looked at him.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why, because--because of--of what I said to him--er--er--when I called
here yesterday morning. He--I presume he took offense and--and this
outrage is the result. I am convinced that--”
“Wait a minute. What did you say for him to take offense at?”
“I demanded that order should be delivered as promised. I am accustomed
to do business with business men and--”
“Hold on just a minute more, Mr. Calvin. We don't seem to be gettin' at
the clam in this shell as fast as we'd ought to. Al, what have you got
to say about all this business?”
Albert was white, almost as white as when he fought Sam Thatcher, but as
he stood up to Sam so also did he face the irate clergyman. He told
of the latter's visit to the office, of the threat to cancel the order
unless delivery was promised that day, of how his promise to deliver was
exacted, of his effort to keep that promise.
“I HAD to deliver it, Grandfather,” he said hotly. “He had all but
called me a liar and--and by George, I wasn't going to--”
His grandfather held up a warning hand.
“Sshh! Ssh!” he said. “Go on with your yarn, boy.”
Albert told of the lame horse, of his effort to hire another team, and
finally how in desperation he had engaged Ves Young as a last resort.
The captain's face was serious but there was the twinkle under his heavy
brows. He pulled at his beard.
“Humph!” he grunted. “Did you know Ves and Simp had been drinkin' when
you hired 'em?”
“Of course I didn't. After they had gone Issy said he suspected that
they had been drinking a little, but _I_ didn't know it. All I wanted
was to prove to HIM,” with a motion toward Mr. Calvin, “that I kept my
word.”
Captain Zelotes pulled at his beard. “All right, Al,” he said, after a
moment; “you can go.”
Albert went out of the private office. After he had gone the captain
turned to his irate customer.
“I'm sorry this happened, Mr. Calvin,” he said, “and if Keeler or I had
been here it probably wouldn't. But,” he added, “as far as I can see,
the boy did what he thought was the best thing to do. And,” the twinkle
reappeared in the gray eyes, “you sartinly did get your lumber when
'twas promised.”
Mr. Calvin stiffened. He had his good points, but he suffered from what
Laban Keeler once called “ingrowin' importance,” and this ailment often
affected his judgment. Also he had to face Mrs. Calvin upon his return
home.
“Do I understand,” he demanded, “that you are excusing that young man
for putting that outrage upon me?”
“We-ll, as I say, I'm sorry it happened. But, honest, Mr. Calvin, I
don't know's the boy's to blame so very much, after all. He delivered
your lumber, and that's somethin'.”
“Is that all you have to say, Captain Snow? Is that--that impudent young
clerk of yours to go unpunished?”
“Why, yes, I guess likely he is.”
“Then I shall NEVER buy another dollar's worth of your house again,
sir.”
Captain Zelotes bowed. “I'm sorry to lose your trade, Mr. Calvin,” he
said. “Good mornin'.”
Albert, at his desk in the outer office, was waiting rebelliously to be
called before his grandfather and upbraided. And when so called he was
in a mood to speak his mind. He would say a few things, no matter what
happened in consequence. But he had no chance to say them. Captain
Zelotes did not mention the Calvin affair to him, either that day or
afterward. Albert waited and waited, expecting trouble, but the trouble,
so far as his grandfather was concerned, did not materialize. He could
not understand it.
But if in that office there was silence concerning the unusual delivery
of the lumber for the Calvin porch, outside there was talk enough and
to spare. Each Welfare Worker talked when she reached home and the story
spread. Small boys shouted after Albert when he walked down the main
street, demanding to know how Ves Young's cart was smellin' these days.
When he entered the post office some one in the crowd was almost sure to
hum, “Here's to the good old whiskey, drink her down.” On the train
on the way to the picnic, girls and young fellows had slyly nagged him
about it. The affair and its consequence were the principal causes of
his mood that day; this particular “Portygee streak” was due to it.
The path along the edge of the high bluff entered a grove of scraggy
pitch pines about a mile from the lighthouse and the picnic ground.
Albert stalked gloomily through the shadows of the little grove and
emerged on the other side. There he saw another person ahead of him on
the path. This other person was a girl. He recognized her even at this
distance. She was Helen Kendall.
She and he had not been quite as friendly of late. Not that there was
any unfriendliness between them, but she was teaching in the primary
school and, as her father had not been well, spent most of her evenings
at home. During the early part of the winter he had called occasionally
but, somehow, it had seemed to him that she was not quite as cordial, or
as interested in his society and conversation as she used to be. It was
but a slight indifference on her part, perhaps, but Albert Speranza
was not accustomed to indifference on the part of his feminine
acquaintances. So he did not call again. He had seen her at the picnic
ground and they had spoken, but not at any length.
And he did not care to speak with her now. He had left the pavilion
because of his desire to be alone, and that desire still persisted.
However, she was some little distance ahead of him and he waited in the
edge of the grove until she should go over the crest of the little hill
at the next point.
But she did not go over the crest. Instead, when she reached it, she
walked to the very edge of the bluff and stood there looking off at the
ocean. The sea breeze ruffled her hair and blew her skirts about her and
she made a pretty picture. But to Albert it seemed that she was standing
much too near the edge. She could not see it, of course, but from where
he stood he could see that the bank at that point was much undercut by
the winter rains and winds, and although the sod looked firm enough from
above, in reality there was little to support it. Her standing there
made him a trifle uneasy and he had a mind to shout and warn her.
He hesitated, however, and as he watched she stepped back of her own
accord. He turned, re-entered the grove and started to walk back to the
pavilion.
He had scarcely done so when he heard a short scream followed by a
thump and a rumbling, rattling sound. He turned like a flash, his heart
pounding violently.
The bluff edge was untenanted. A semi-circular section of the sod where
Helen had stood was missing. From the torn opening where it had been
rose a yellow cloud of dust.