WAITING FOR THE DEACON.
THE milk was carried to the pantry and strained; the candles were
lighted, and the family sat in a pleasant circle about the kitchen
table, while, without, the twilight darkened into night, and the
crickets sang. There was Mr. Pipkin showing Phin how to braid a belly
into his woodchuck-skin whiplash; Mrs. Pipkin (late Miss Wansey) paring
a pan of apples, which she held in her lap; Moses reading the “Saturday
Courier,” a popular story-paper in those days; little Kate, sitting on a
stool, piecing a bed-quilt under her mother’s eye,—sewing together
squares of different colored prints cut out from old dresses, and
occasionally looking up to ask the maternal advice,—while Mrs. Chatford
was doing some patch-work of a different sort, which certain rents in
Phin’s trousers rendered necessary. Jack sat in the corner, silent, and
listening for buggy-wheels.
“I hope you won’t go climbing over the buckles and hames, on to a
horse’s back, in that harum-scarum way, another time,” said the good
woman, in tones of mild reproof, to her younger son.
“’T was beginning to rain, and I couldn’t stop to think,” said Phin,
laughing. “Could I, Phi?”
“I should think not, by the hurry you was in to hook my ride,” replied
Mr. Pipkin, with reviving resentment. “That was a mean trick; and now
jes’ see how I’m payin’ ye for it! Ye never could ’a’ got a
decent-lookin’ belly into this lash, in the world, if ’twa’n’t for me.”
“That’s ’cause you’re such a good feller, and know so much!” said Phin,
who could resort to flattery when anything was to be gained by it. “O,
look, Mose! ain’t Phi doing it splendid? It’s going to be the best
whiplash ever you set eyes on.”
Mr. Pipkin’s lips tightened in a grin around his big front teeth, and he
worked harder than ever drawing the strands over the taper belly, while
Phin, leaning over the back of his chair, whispered to Jack, “See what a
fool I can make of him!”
At that Mrs. Pipkin, who had a keen ear and a sharp temper, flared up.
“Mr. Pipkin!”
“What, Mis’ Pipkin?”—meekly.
“You’ve worked long enough on that whiplash. He’s making fun of ye; and
that’s all the thanks you’ll ever get for helping him. Take hold here
and pare these apples while I slice ’em up.”
“In a minute. I can’t le’ go here jes’ now,” said Mr. Pipkin.
Whereupon Mrs. Pipkin laid down her knife and the apple she was paring,
and looked at her husband over the rim of the pan in perfect
astonishment.
“Mr. Pipkin! did you hear my request?”
“Yes, I heerd ye, but—”
“Mr. Pipkin,” interrupted Mrs. Pipkin, severely, “_will_ you have the
kindness to pare these apples? I don’t wish to be obliged to speak
again!”
“What’s the apples fer,—sass?” said Mr. Pipkin, mildly.
“Pies; and you know you’re as fond of pies as anybody, Mr. Pipkin.”
“Wal, so I be, _your_ pies. I declare, you do beat the Dutch with your
apple-pies, if I do say it. There, Phin, I guess you can go along with
the belly now. If it’s for pies, I’ll pare till the cows come hum!”
Thus disguising his obedience to his wife’s request, Mr. Pipkin took the
pan and the knife, and Mrs. Pipkin recovered from her astonishment.
“Jack might pare the apples and let Phi braid!” Phin complained, getting
into difficulties with his whiplash. “Darn this old belly!” And he flung
it across the room.
“Phineas! you shall go to bed if I hear any more such talk,” said Mrs.
Chatford, as sternly as it was in her kind motherly nature to speak.
Then looking at Jack in the corner, “How happens it you are not reading
your book to-night? It’s something new for you to be idle.”
“O, I don’t feel much like reading to-night,” said Jack, whose heart was
where his treasure was.
“He’s thinking about his half-dollar, waiting to know if it’s a good
one,” sneered Phin.
“Shouldn’t wonder if that half-dollar had dropped out of old Daddy
Cobb’s money-box,” remarked Mr. Pipkin, taking a slice of apple.
“Mr. Pipkin! these apples are for pies!” said Mrs. Pipkin, in a warning
voice.
“Daddy Cobb’s money-box! what’s that?” faltered Jack, fearing he had
found an owner to the coin.
“What! didn’t ye never hear tell about Daddy Cobb’s diggin’ for a chist
o’ treasure? Thought everybody’d heerd o’ that. There’s some kind o’
magic about it, hanged if I can explain jest what. The chist has a habit
o’ shiftin’ its hidin’-place in the ground, so that though Daddy’s
a’most got holt on ’t five or six times, it has allers slipped away from
him in the most onaccountable and aggravatin’ manner. He has a way o’
findin’ where it is, by some hocus-pocus, hazel-wands for one thing;
then he goes with his party of diggers at night,—for there’s two or
three more fools big as him,—and they make a circle round the place, and
one reads the Bible and holds the lantern while the rest dig, and if
nobody speaks or does anything to break the charm, there’s a chance ’at
they may git the treasure. Once Daddy says they had actooally got a holt
on’t,—a big, square iron chist,—but jest’s they was liftin’ on’t out he
jammed his finger, and said ‘Oh!’ and by hokey! if it didn’t disappear
right afore their face an’ eyes quicker ’n a flash o’ lightnin’!”
Jack listened intently to this story. He did not believe that his
treasure was the one Daddy Cobb had been digging for so long, but might
it not elude his grasp in the same way?
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