CHAPTER XXIX. — THE FINAL CONFLICT
When Tom Chripp showed his father the photograph of the house in which he was born, he burst into tears.
“Just as pretty as ever,” he exclaimed. “The roof's been mended, beent it, and just the same flowers all around it as when I was a boy. Tom, I'm glad to see you back safe and sound—but that picter—Tom, when I die, you just put that picter in the coffin with me, won't you? I want your grandfather to see that the old place was looked after when he was gone.”
Tom promised.
A dark featured, dark haired man entered Mr. Strout's store. The proprietor knew he was a stranger—perhaps just moved into town, and a prospective customer.
“What can I do for you?” he inquired blandly, for he was capable of being affable.
“I am looking for Mr. Hiram Maxwell.”
“He ain't here no more.”
“But he's your partner, isn't he?”
“Didn't you read my sign? There ain't no partner on it.”
“There ought to be.”
Mr. Strout looked at the stranger with astonishment. Then he laughed, and, with a remembrance of Mr. Richard Ricker, asked sneeringly:
“What asylum did you come from?”
“I beg your pardon,” said the stranger. “I used to know Mr. Maxwell, and they told me in the city that he was a member of the firm of Strout and Maxwell.”
“Who told ye?”
“The trustees of the estate of Mr. Sawyer. Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer. Did you know him?”
“I never knew any good of him. So they told yer, did they? That shows how much attention they give to business. The old store was burned up and that busted the firm. This store's mine from cellar to chimney.”
“The old firm must have paid you well.”
“Pretty well—but I made my money in State Street, speculating and I'm well fixed.”
“I'm glad to hear that you've prospered. I wish my friend Maxwell had been as fortunate. What became of his interest and Mr. Sawyer's in the store?”
“Went up in smoke, didn't I tell yer?”
“I beg your pardon,” said the stranger again. “But doesn't your store stand on land belonging to the old firm?”
Strout squinted at the stranger. “I guess you're a lawyer lookin' for points, but you're on the wrong track. You won't get 'em.”
“I'm not a lawyer, Mr. Strout. I only inquired thinking my friend Mr. Maxwell might—”
“Well, he won't,” said Strout. “Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer cheated me out of one store but he can't drive me out of this. He thought he was awful smart, but when he bought the store he didn't buy the land. It belonged to the town. I'm one of the selectmen, and one of the assessors found it out and told me, and I bought it—an' this store an' way up to the sky, and the land way down to China belongs to O. Strout.”
“I am much obliged, Mr. Strout, for your courtesy—only one more question and then I'll try and find my friend Mr. Maxwell—if somebody will be kind enough to tell me where he is.”
“You didn't ask where he was. If you want to know he's up to the Hospital. He's had his leg off, an'll have to walk on crutches.”
“So bad as that,—I'm very sorry,” said the stranger.
“I've got to put up some orders—see that sign?” and he pointed to one which read:
“When You've transacted your Business, Think of Home, Sweet Home.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Strout, for taking so much of your valuable time. Do you know whether Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer is in town?”
Strout laughed scornfully. “In town? That's good. Why, man, he's been dead more'n twenty years—food for fishes, if they'd eat him, which I doubt. He's left a boy, same name, that used to go to school here, but, thank Heaven, he's got lots of money, and probably won't trouble us any more. Perhaps he's the one you want.”
“Are you sure the boy's father is dead? I saw him in Boston yesterday.”
“I don't take any stock in any such nonsense. This ain't the days of miracles.”
“I saw him in this town this morning.”
“Where?” gasped Strout.
“Right here. That's my name, Quincy Adams Sawyer. Do you want me to identify myself?” He stepped back, puckered up his mouth, and began whistling “Listen to the Mocking Bird.”
Strout was both startled and mad. “Just like you to come spyin' round. You allers was a meddler, an' underhanded. But now you know the truth, what are you going to do about it?”
Quincy walked to the door. “Well, Mr. Strout, I'm going to put it about as you did when I first came to Mason's Corner, Either you or I have got to leave town. This is our last fight, and I'm going to win.”
He left the store quickly and made his way to where Ezekiel was waiting for him with the carryall.
“Now, 'Zeke, we'll go to the Hospital and see poor Hiram.”
They found him hobbling about on crutches in the grounds of the Hospital.
“How long have you been here, Hiram?” was Quincy's first question.
“About twelve weeks. You see, besides breaking my leg I cracked my knee pan an' that's made it wuss.”
“We'll fix you up very soon. I'll get you an artificial leg from New York. You'll be able to walk all right but you mustn't do any heavy lifting.”
“Guess I shan't have no chance to lift anything now Strout's got the store.”
“Don't worry about that, Hiram. There are towns that have two stores in them. How's Mandy?”
{Illustration: “'JUST LIKE YOU TO COME SPYIN' ROUND. YOU ALLERS WAS A MEDDLER.'”}
“Gettin' along all right. Mr. Pettingill, there, sends a man over to help her, and Mrs. Crowley is as good as two any day.”
“Don't worry, Hiram. You'll come out on top yet”
“If I do, 'twill be because you'll put me there, I reckon.”
As they were driving back 'Zekiel asked Quincy if he knew Mrs. Hawkins was going to sell out.
“No, why. Getting too old?”
“No, she's as spry as a cat, and she's seventy odd. That ain't the reason. Jonas is dead.”
“What was the matter?”
“Chickens.”
“What—overeating?”
“No, somebody stole his chickens. So he arranged a gun with a spring and he must have forgotten it.”
“He didn't 'kalkilate' on its hitting him?”
“Guess not. Mrs. Hawkins says she's too old to marry agin, and she can't run the house without a man she can trust.”
“Let's stop and see her.”
When they entered, Mrs. Hawkins threw up her hands. “Lord a Massy! I heerd at the store all about you comin' back, but where on airth did you come from? They said you was dead an' here you are as handsome as ever. How's your wife, an' that boy o' yourn?”
“Both well, I'm happy to say. 'Zeke tells me you want to sell out.”
“Yes. Now Jonas has gone there's nobody to take care of the chickens, an' a hotel 'thout chickens an' fresh eggs is no home for a hungry man.”
“What will you take for the place just as it stands?”
“Well, I've figured up an' I should lose money ef I took less'n four thousand dollars, an' I ought to have five.”
“I'll take the refusal of it for forty-eight hours at five thousand. Is it agreed?”
“I'd hold it a month for you, Mister Sawyer, but I want to go and help Mandy soon's I can now that Hiram's laid up for nobody knows how long.”
“We'll have Hiram on his feet again very soon, Mrs. Hawkins. I'll be down again in a few days.”
“Give my love to Alice,” she called after them as they were driving away.
The next evening Quincy asked his son to come to the library with him.
“Quincy, I want to borrow fifty thousand dollars. Can you spare it?”
“Twice as much if you need it. I'll give it to you. It's yours anyway.”
“No, I want to borrow it at six per cent.”
“Are you going into business?”
“Yes.” Then Quincy told him of his conversation with Mr. Strout.
“How are you going to beat him?” asked young Quincy.
“I'll tell you. I'm going to buy the Hawkins House. I shall have it lifted up and another story put underneath. There will be room for a store twice as large as Strout's, and a hotel entrance and office on the ground floor. I'll put Hiram Maxwell in charge of the store.”
“Who'll run the hotel?”
“'Zeke says Sam Hill is the man for the place, and his wife Tilly will be the housekeeper, chief cook, etc.”
“Do you mean to run Mr. Strout out of town?”
“That is my present intention. Not for personal vengeance but for the ultimate good of the community.”
“I'd like to help, but the work isn't in my line.”
“Seriously speaking, Quincy, what is your line—the law?”
“No.”
“Business?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“Don't know. Am thinking it over.”
“Have you seen that Miss Dana yet?”
“No. Mr. Isburn told me she is out West now on an important case.”
“We'll get her to find Strout after he leaves Fernborough. Give me that check to-morrow early. I'm going to Fernborough with an architect to have plans made for the alterations.”
Mr. Strout could look from his window and see what was going on at the Hawkins House.
“Who's bought the hotel, Abner?”
“Well, Mr. Strout, they do say it's Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer, an' that Sam Hill and his wife Tilly are going to run it.”
“I won't sell them a darned thing.”
Mr. Stiles grinned. “Can't they buy in Cottonton, or Montrose, or Eastborough? Mr. Sawyer's got stores there.”
“Well they'll want things in a hurry, but they won't get them from me.”
A month later Abner rushed into the store.
“Say, Strout, they're putting up a new sign on the Hawkins House. Come and see it.”
Mr. Strout walked leisurely to the window and put up his hand to shade his eyes. Great white letters on a blue ground.
THE SAWYER GROCERY COMPANY
“By George, Strout, there's going to be another grocery.”
Mr. Strout did not speak, but walked back behind the counter. Abner went to see the sign raising.
Mr. Strout soliloquized: “So, he's going to fight me, is he? Well, I'll spend every dollar I have, and borrow some more, before I'll give in. He'll cut prices—so will I.”
Then a troubled look came into his face.
“Confound it. My commission as postmaster runs out in a month, but our Congressman is a good friend of mine.”
Opening night came at the new store, Saturday being selected. Over the doorway was an electric sign—
WELCOME TO ALL
Mr. Strout's store was nearly deserted. About ten o'clock Abner came in.
“I say, Strout, it's just scrumptious. They got three times as many goods as you have. An' there's a smoking room back of the store with a sign over the door 'Exclusively for Loafers. Loaf and Enjoy Your Soul.' They say a poet feller named Whitman writ that last part. Saturday morning is to be bargain day and everything is to be sold at half price. And, say, isn't the hotel fine? Everybody was invited upstairs, an' there was a free lunch spread out.”
“Abner, you've talked enough. You'd better go home.”
The warfare continued for three months. At the end of the first, Hiram Maxwell, an old soldier, was appointed postmaster, vice Obadiah Strout. At the end of the second month Mr. Strout resigned his position as organist and the gentleman who led the orchestra that played during the evening at the hotel was chosen in his stead. At the end of the third month a red flag was seen hanging at the door of Mr. Strout's store and Mr. Beers the auctioneer whose once rotund voice had now become thin and quavering, sold off the remaining stock and the fixtures. Then the curtains were pulled down and the door locked. The next day Mr. and Mrs. Strout and family left town.
“What's become of Strout?” Quincy asked his son, who had just returned from Fernborough. Another month had passed since the auction sale.
“I heard he was seen on State Street a few days ago, and he said the best move he ever made was leaving that one-horse country town; that he could make more money in a day in State Street than he could in a month in the grocery business. It seems he has become what they call a curb broker or speculator.”
“I am glad,” said Quincy, “that Mr. Strout has found a more profitable and congenial field. It must have been very dull for him the last three months of his stay in that one-horse town.”