AN INHERITANCE.
Quincy reached his room at Mrs. Hawkins's boarding house about midnight of the day of the town meeting. About the same hour Mrs. Heppy Putnam awoke from a troubled sleep and felt a pain, like the thrust of a knife blade, through her left side. The room was dark and cold, the wood fire in the open grate having died out a couple of hours before, while a cool wind was blowing with great force outside.
Mrs. Putnam came of the old stock which considered it a virtue to suffer and be silent, rather than call out and be saved. So she lay for five long hours suffering intense pain, but declaring to herself, with all the sturdiness of an old Roman warrior or an Indian chief, that she would not ask for any assistance "till it wuz time for folks to git up."
This delay was fatal, or was destined to become so, but she did not know it; she had had colds before, and she had always got well. Why should'nt she now? It is a strange vagary of old people to consider themselves just as young as they used to be, notwithstanding their advanced years. To the majority of the old people, the idea of death is not so appalling as the inability to work and the incapacity to enjoy the customary pleasures of life.
Mrs. Putnam had always been an active, energetic woman until she had lost her power to walk as the result of rheumatic fever; in fact, it was always acknowledged and said by the country folk that she was the better half of the matrimonial firm of Silas and Hepsibeth Putnam. Since her husband's failure to mount to Heaven on the day fixed for the Second Advent she had had entire control of the family finances. Her investments, many of which had been suggested by her deceased son, J. Jones Putnam, had been very profitable.
She owned the house in which she lived, which was the largest, best finished, and best furnished one in the town of Eastborough. It occupied a commanding position on the top of a hill, and from its upper windows could be obtained a fine view of the surrounding country. The soil at Mason's Corner was particularly fertile, and this fact had led to the rapid growth of the village, which was three miles from the business centre of Eastborough, and only a mile from the similar part of the adjoining town of Montrose.
Back of the Putnam homestead were the best barns, carriage houses, sheds and other outbuildings to be found in the town, but for years they had been destitute of horses, cattle, and other domestic animals.
Mr. Putnam had disliked dogs because they killed sheep, and Mrs. Putnam detested cats. For years no chanticleer had awakened echoes during the morning hours, and no hens or chickens wandered over the neglected farm. The trees in the large orchard had not been pruned for a long time, and the large vegetable garden was overrun with grass and weeds.
Back of the orchard and the vegetable garden, and to the right and left of the homestead, were about a hundred and sixty acres of arable pasture and wood-land, the whole forming what could be easily made the finest farm in the town.
The farm had been neglected simply because the income from her investments was more than sufficient for the support of the family. The unexpended income had been added to the principal, until Mrs. Putnam's private fortune now amounted to fully fifty thousand dollars, invested in good securities, together with the house and farm, which were free from mortgage.
When the first streaks of morning reached the room in which Mrs. Putnam lay upon her bed of pain, she seized one of her crutches, and pounded vigorously upon the floor. In a short time Samanthy Green entered the room. She was buttoning up her dress as she came in, and her hair was in a dishevelled condition.
"Why, what on earth's the matter? You wheeze like our old pump out in the barn. You do look real sick, to be sure."
"Wall, if you don't like the looks of me," said Mrs. Putnam sharply, "don't look at me."
"But didn't you pound?" asked Samanthy. "Don't you want me to go for the doctor?"
"No," replied Mrs. Putnam, "I don't want no doctor. The fust thing that I want you to do is to go and comb that frowzy pate of yourn, and when you git that done I want yer to make me a mustard plaster 'bout as big as that;" and she held up her hands about a foot apart. "Now go, and don't stand and look at me as though I wuz a circus waggin."
Samanthy left the room quickly, but she had no sooner closed the door when Mrs. Putnam called out her name in a loud voice, and Samanthy opened the door and looked in.
"Did you call, marm?" she asked.
"Of course I did," said Mrs. Putnam testily. "I guess ye wouldn't have come back if yer hadn't known I did."
Mrs. Putnam was evidently in a bad temper, and Samanthy had learned by years of experience to keep a close mouth under such circumstances, so she waited for Mrs. Putnam's next words without replying. Finally Mrs Putnam spoke. "I wish you'd bring up some wood and start a fire, the room's kinder cold."
When Samanthy reached the kitchen she found Lindy there.
"Why, Miss Lindy," said she, "what are you up so early for?"
"I heard mother pounding and I thought she might be sick."
"She is awful sick," rejoined Samanthy; "I never saw her look so poorly afore; she seems to be all choked up. She wants a big mustard plaster and a fire up in her room, and I don't know which to do fust. Oh!" she cried, "I must comb my hair before I go back;" and she wet a brush and commenced brushing out her long brown hair, which, with her rosy cheeks, formed her two principal claims to good looks.
"Sit down," said Lindy, "and I'll fix your hair up much quicker than you can do it yourself."
"And much better, too," added Samanthy thankfully.
"While you're building the fire," continued Lindy, "I'll mix up the mustard plaster."
When Samanthy entered the chamber with the materials for the fire, Mrs. Putnam opened her eyes and said sharply, "Did yer bring that plaster?"
"No," said Samanthy, "I thought I would build the fire fust."
"Wall," said Mrs. Putnam, "I want the plaster fust, and you go right down stairs and mix it up quick."
When Samanthy returned to the kitchen she found that Lindy had the plaster all ready. Samanthy took it, and started upstairs.
Lindy said to her, "Don't tell her that I made it." As she said this she stepped back into the kitchen and closed the door.
As Samanthy approached the bedside with the plaster, Mrs. Putnam looked up and asked, "Did you make that plaster, Samanthy?"
"Yes'm," replied Samanthy.
"You're lyin', Samanthy Green, and you know yer are. You can't fool me. Didn't I hear yer talkin' to somebody in the kitchen?"
"Yes'm," assented Samanthy.
"Wall," rejoined Mrs. Putnam, "of course I know who it wuz yer wuz talkin' to. Did she make the plaster?"
"Yes'm," again assented Samanthy.
"Give it to me," said Mrs. Putnam.
Samanthy passed it to her, and the old lady crumpled it in her hand's and threw it across the room. "Now go down stairs, Samanthy Green, and make me a mustard plaster, as I told yer to, and when I git up outer this I'll see if I can't git somebody to wait on me that kin tell the truth 'thout my havin' to help 'em."
In the course of half an hour the new plaster was made and applied, and a bright fire was shedding its warmth into the room.
"Go down stairs and git yer breakfast," said Mrs. Putnam. "'Tis a trifle early, but I hearn tell that lyin' makes people hungry."
As Samanthy gave her an inquiring look, Mrs. Putnam said, "No, I don't want nothin' to eat or drink nuther, but when yer git the dishes washed I want yer ter go on an errand for me."
It was half past six when Samanthy Green again stood in Mrs. Putnam's room.
"I want yer to go right down to Zeke Pettengill's and tell his sister Alice that I want her to come right up here. Tell her it's my las' sickness, and I won't take 'no' for an answer. Be sure you put it to her jest as I do; and Samanthy," as Samanthy opened the door and was leaving the room, "say, Samanthy, don't git anybody to do the errand for you."
About ten minutes after Samanthy left the house, Lindy Putnam entered the sick room. Mrs. Putnam's pain had been relieved somewhat by the mustard, and this relief restored, to a great extent, her usual vigor of mind.
"What are you up here for?" cried Mrs. Putnam, a look of displeasure clouding her face.
"I knew Samanthy had gone out, and so I came up to see if I could do anything for you, mother."
"Don't mother me. I ain't your mother, and I mean everybody shall know it soon's I'm dead."
"I've had to say mother before other people," explained Lindy, "and that's why I forgot myself then. Pray excuse me."
"Oh, don't put on yer citified airs when yer talkin' to me. Ain't yer glad I'm goin' ter die?"
"I hope you will get better, Mrs. Putnam," answered Lindy.
"You know better," rejoined Mrs. Putnam. "You'll be glad when I'm gone, for then you kin go gallivantin' 'round and spend the money that my son worked hard fur."
"I've used very little of it," said Lindy; "less than the interest; I have never touched the principal."
Lindy still remained standing at the foot of the bed.
"Didn't yer hear me say I didn't want nuthin'?" asked Mrs. Putnam.
"I will leave the room then," replied Lindy quietly.
"I wish you would," said Mrs. Putnam, "and you'll do me a favor if you'll pack yer duds as quick as yer can and git out of the house and never come back agin."
"I will leave the room, but I cannot leave the house while you are alive," remarked Lindy firmly.
"Why not?" said Mrs. Putnam. "I want to die in peace, and I shall go much easier if I know I haven't got to set my eyes on your face agin."
"I promised Jones," said Lindy, "that I would never leave you while you were alive."
"Oh, you promised Jones, did yer?" cried Mrs. Putnam with a sneer. "Wall, Jones will let you off on yer promise jest to 'blige me, so yer needn't stay any longer."
As Lindy walked towards the door, Mrs. Putnam spoke again.
"Did yer ever tell anybody I wasn't yer mother?" Lindy hesitated. "Why don't you out with it," said Mrs. Putnam, "and say no, no matter if it is a lie? Samanthy can lie faster'n a horse can trot, and I know you put her up to it."
"I have been impudent and disrespectful to you many times, Mrs. Putnam, when you were cross to me, but I never told you a deliberate lie in my life. I have told one person that you were not my mother."
"What did yer do it fur?" asked Mrs. Putnam.
"I wished to retain his good opinion," replied Lindy.
"Who was it?" inquired Mrs. Putnam eagerly. Lindy did not answer. "Oh, you won't tell!" said Mrs. Putnam. "Wall, I bet I can guess; it's that feller that's boardin' over to Pettingill's."
Mrs. Putnam saw the blood rise in Lindy's face, and she chuckled to herself.
"What reason have you for forming such an opinion?" asked Lindy.
"Wall, I can kinder put two and two together," said Mrs. Putnam. "The day Alice Pettengill came over here with him you two wuz down in the parlor together, and I had to pound on the floor three times afore I could make him hear. I knew you must be either spoonin' or abusin' me."
It was with difficulty that Lindy kept back the words which rose to her lips, but she said nothing.
"Did yer tell him that I wuz goin' to leave my money to some one else?"
"It wasn't necessary," said Lindy, "I judged from some things that he said that you had told him yourself."
"Did he tell you who it wuz?" persisted Mrs. Putnam.
"No," said Lindy. "I did my best to find out, but he wouldn't tell me."
"Good for him," cried Mrs. Putnam. "Then ye don't know?"
"I can put two and two together," replied Lindy.
"But where'd yer git the two and two?" asked Mrs. Putnam.
"Oh, I have surmised for a long time," continued Lindy. "This morning I asked Samanthy where she was going, and she said down to Pettengill's. Then I knew."
"I told her not to tell," said Mrs. Putnam, "the lyin' jade. If I git up off this bed she'll git her walkin' ticket."
"She's ready to go," said Lindy; "she told me this morning that she'd wait until you got a new girl."
Mrs. Putnam closed her eyes and placed both of her hands over her heart. Despite her fortitude the intense pain wrung a groan from her.
Lindy rushed forward and dropped on her knees beside the bed. "Forgive me, Mrs. Putnam," said she, "but you spoke such cruel words to me that I could not help answering you in the same way. I am so sorry. I loved your son with all my heart, and I had no right to speak so to his mother, no matter what she said to me."
The paroxysm of pain had passed, and Mrs. Putnam was her old self again. Looking at the girl who was kneeling with her head bowed down she said, "I guess both of us talked about as we felt; as for loving my son, yer had no right to, and he had no right to love you."
"But we were brother and sister," cried Lindy, looking up.
"'Twould have been all right if he'd let it stop there," replied Mrs. Putnam. "Who put it into his head that there was no law agin a man marryin' his adopted sister? You wuz a woman grown of eighteen, and he wuz only a young boy of sixteen, and you made him love yer and turn agin his mother, and then we had ter send him away from home ter keep yer apart, and then you ran after him, and then he died, and it broke my heart. You wuz the cause of it, but for yer he would be livin' now, a comfort to his poor old mother. I hated yer then for what yer did. Ev'ry time I look at yer I think of the happiness you stole from me, an' I hate yer wusser'n ever."
"Oh, mother, mother!" sobbed Lindy.
"I'm not your mother," screamed Mrs. Putnam. "I s'pose you must have had one, but you'll never know who she wuz; she didn't care nuthin' fer yer, for she left yer in the road, and Silas was fool enough to pick yer up and bring yer home. What yer right name is nobody knows, and mebbe yer ain't got none."
At this taunt Lindy arose to her feet and looked defiantly at Mrs. Putnam. "You are not telling the truth, Mrs. Putnam," said the girl; "you know who my parents were, but you will not tell me."
"That's right," said Mrs. Putnam, "git mad and show yer temper; that's better than sheddin' crocodile's tears, as yer've been doin'; yer've been a curse to me from the day I fust set eyes on yer. I've said I hate yer, and I do, an' I'll never forgive yer fer what yer've done to me."
Lindy saw that words were useless. Perhaps Mrs. Putnam might, recover, and if she did not provoke her too far she might relent some day and tell her what she knew about her parents; so she walked to the door and opened it. Then she turned and said, "Good-by, Mrs. Putnam, I truly hope that you will recover."
"Wall, I sha'n't," said Mrs. Putnam. "I'm goin' to die, I want ter die. I want ter see Jones; I want ter talk ter him; I want ter tell him how much I loved him—how much I've suffered through yer. I'm goin' ter tell him how I've hated yer and what fer, and when I git through talkin' to him, I'll guarantee he'll be my way o' thinkin'."
As the old woman said this, with an almost superhuman effort she raised herself to a sitting posture, pointed her finger at Lindy, and gave utterances to a wild, hysterical laugh that almost froze the blood in the poor girl's veins.
Lindy slammed the door behind her, rushed to her own room, locked the door, and threw herself face downward upon the bed. Should she ever forget those last fearful words, that vengeful face, that taunting finger, or that mocking laugh?
Samanthy took Alice up to Mrs. Putnam's room about eight o'clock. Alice knelt by the bedside. She could not see the old lady's face, but she took her withered hands in hers, and caressed them lovingly, saying, "Aunt Heppy, I am sorry you are so sick. Have you had the doctor?"
The old lady drew the young girl's head down close to her and kissed her upon the cheek. "The docter kin do me no good. I've sent fer yer becuz I know yer love me, and I wanted to know that one person would be sorry when I wuz gone."
"I'm so sorry," said Alice, "that I cannot see to help you, but you are not going to die; you must have the doctor at once."
"No," said Mrs. Putnam, "I want to die, I want to see my boy. I sent for you becuz I wanted to tell you that I am goin' to leave this house and farm and all my money to you."
"To me!" cried Alice, astonished. "Why, how can you talk so, Aunt Heppy? You have a daughter, who is your legal heir; how could you ever think of robbing your own flesh and blood of her inheritance?"
"She's no flesh and blood of mine!"
"What!" cried Alice, "isn't Lindy your own child?"
"No," said Mrs. Putnam savagely. "Silas and me didn't think we'd have any children, so we 'dopted her jest afore we moved down from New Hampshire and settled in this town."
"Do you know who her parents were?" inquired Alice.
"Alice, what did you do with that letter I gave you the las' time you were here?"
"It is locked up in my writing desk at home," answered Alice.
"What did yer promise to do with it?" said Mrs. Putnam.
"I promised," replied Alice, "not to let any one see it, and to destroy it within twenty-four hours after your death."
"And you will keep yer promise?" asked the old woman.
"My word is sacred," said Alice solemnly.
"Alice Pettengill," cried Mrs. Putnam, "if you break your word to me I shall be sorry that I ever loved you; I shall repent that I made you my heiress." And her voice rose to a sharp, shrill tone. "I'll haunt you as long as you live."
The girl shrank back from her.
"Don't mind a poor old woman whose hours are numbered, but you'll keep yer promise, won't yer, Alice?" And she grasped both Alice's hands convulsively.
"Aunt Heppy," said Alice, "I've given you my promise, and I'll keep my word whatever happens. So don't worry any more about it, Auntie."
For a few moments Mrs. Putnam remained quiet; then she spoke in clear, even tones. Not a word was lost upon Alice. "This adopted daughter of mine has been a curse to me ever since I knew her. She was two years older than Jones. They grew up together as brother and sister, but she wasn't satisfied with that, she fell in love with my son, and she made him love her. She turned him agin his mother. She found out that there wuz no law agin a man's marryin' his adopted sister. We had to send him away from home, but she followed him. She wuz goin' to elope with him, but I got wind of it, and I stopped that; then Jones died away from home and left her all his money. He wuz so bitter agin me that he put in his will that she was not to touch a dollar of my money, but better that than to have her marry him. I stopped that!" and the old woman chuckled to herself. Then her mood changed. "Such a marriage would 'a' been a sin agin God and man," she said sternly. "She robbed me of my son, my only boy, but I'll git even with her. She asked me this mornin' if I knew who her parents wuz. I told her no, that she was a waif picked up in a New Hampshire road, but I lied to her. I had to."
"But do you know who they were?" said Alice.
"Certainly I do," said Mrs. Putnam; "that letter you've got, and that yer promised to destroy, tells all about 'em, but she shall never see it. Never! Never!! Never!!!"
Again she rose to a sitting posture, and again that wild, mocking laugh rang through the house. Lindy, still lying upon her bed in her room, heard it, shuddered, and covered her ears with her hands to shut out the terrible sound. Samanthy, in the kitchen, heard it, and saying to herself, "Mrs. Putnam has gone crazy, and only that blind girl with her," ran upstairs.
When Mrs. Putnam uttered that wild laugh, Alice started from her chair with beating heart and a frightened look upon her face. As the door opened and Samanthy entered, Alice stepped forward. She could not see who it was, but supposing it was Lindy, she cried out, "Oh, Lindy, I'm so glad you've come!"
Mrs. Putnam had fallen back exhausted upon her pillow; when she heard the name Lindy she tried to rise again, but could not. But her indomitable spirit still survived.
"So you've come back, have you?" she shrieked. "Yer couldn't let me die in peace. You want to hear more, do you? Well, I'll tell you the truth. I know who your parents are, but I destroyed the letter; it's burned. That's what I had the fire built for this mornin'. You robbed me of my son and I've got even with yer." The old woman pointed her finger at poor Samanthy, who stood petrified in the doorway, and shrieked again, "Go!" and she pointed her withered finger toward the door, "and hunt for your parents."
The astonished Samanthy finally plucked up courage to close the door; she ran to Lindy's room and pounded upon the door until Lindy was forced to admit her; then the frightened girl told Lindy what she had heard, and again the worse than orphan threw herself upon her bed and prayed that she, too, might die.
Alice did not swoon, but she sank upon the floor, overcome by the horror of the scene. No sound came from the bed. Was she dead? Alice groped her way back to the chair in which she had previously sat; she leaned over and listened. Mrs. Putnam was breathing still—faint, short breaths. Alice took one of her hands in hers and prayed for her. Then she prayed for the unhappy girl. Then she thought of the letter and the promise she had made. Should she keep her promises to the dying woman, and thus be a party to the wronging of this poor girl?
"Mrs. Putnam! Mrs. Putnam!! Aunt Heppy!!!" she cried; "take back your fortune, I do not want it; only release me from my oath. Oh, that I could send for that letter and put it back into her hands before she dies! If Mr. Sawyer were only here; but I do not know where to find him."
For hours, it seemed ages to Alice, she remained by the bedside of the dying woman, seeing nothing, but listening intently, and hoping that she would revive, hear her words, and release her from that horrid oath.
Suddenly, Alice started; the poor old wrinkled, wasted hand that she held in hers, was cold—so cold—she leaned over and put her ear above the old woman's lips. There was no sound of breathing. She pulled down the bed-clothes and placed her hand upon her heart. It was still. Mrs. Putnam had gone to meet the boy she had loved and lost.
Feeling her way along the wall, she reached the door. Flinging it wide open, she cried, "Samantha! Lindy!"
Samanthy came to the foot of the stairs.
"What is it, Miss Pettengill?" asked she.
"She's dead," said Alice, and she sank down upon the stairway.
Samanthy ran quickly upstairs. She went first to Miss Lindy's room and told her that all was over; then she came back, went into Mrs. Putnam's room, pulled down the curtains, went to the bed and laid the sheet over Mrs. Putnam's face. She looked at the fire to see that it was safe, came out and closed the door. Then she helped Alice down stairs, led her into the parlor and seated her in an easy-chair.
"I'll bring you a nice cup of hot tea," said she; "I've just made some for dinner."
Lindy came down stairs and went to the front door. Hiram was there, smoking a cigar, and beating his arms to keep warm. He had been waiting outside for a couple of hours, and he was nearly frozen.
"Mr. Maxwell," said Lindy; and Hiram came up the steps. "Mrs. Putnam is dead," said she. "She expired just a few moments ago, about one o'clock," she continued, looking at her watch. "I want you to go right down to Mrs. Hawkins's and bring Betsy Green back to stay with her sister; then tell Mr. Stiles to come up at once with the buggy and a wagon to carry my trunks to the station. Tell Mr. Stiles I am going to Boston on the next train. When you come back you can take Miss Pettengill home. She will be through her lunch by the time you get back. After you've taken her home, I want you to go and get Mrs. Pinkham, the nurse; tell her Mrs. Putnam, is dead, and that I want her to come and lay her out. Then drive over to Montrose and tell Mr. Tilton, the undertaker, that I want him to make all the arrangements for the funeral And take this for your trouble," said she, as she passed him a five dollar bill.
"Oh, that's too much," cried Hiram, drawing back.
"Take it," said Lindy, with a smile; "I have plenty more—more than I need—more than I know what to do with."
As Hiram drove off he said to himself, "Lucky girl; she's mighty putty, too. I wonder that city feller didn't shine up to her. I s'pose she's comin' back to the funeral."
As Lindy turned to go upstairs she looked into the parlor, and saw Alice sitting with her head bowed upon her hand. Her first impulse was to go in and try to justify herself in the eyes of this girl, with whom she knew that Mr. Sawyer was in love; but no, she was but a waif, with no name, no birthright, no heritage; that woman had cut her off from her people. Truly, she had avenged her fancied wrongs.
So Lindy went upstairs to her room, and remained there until after Alice went home.
When Abner Stiles returned from Eastborough, after having seen Lindy Putnam and all her belongings safe on board the Boston train, he stopped at the Putnam house to see if he could be of any further service. Mrs. Pinkham had arrived some time before, and had attended to those duties which she had performed for many years for both the young and old of Mason's Corner, who had been called to their long home. Mr. Tilton, the undertaker from Montrose, had come over immediately, and had given the necessary professional service which such sad occasions demand. Mrs. Pinkham called to Mr. Tilton, and he came to the door.
"No; there is really nothing you can do, Mr. Stiles, unless you will be so kind as to drive around to Deacon Mason's, Mr. Pettengill's, and Mrs. Hawkins's, and inform them that the funeral will be from the church, at two o'clock Friday afternoon. I will see that you are paid for your services."
Undertakers are naturally polite and courteous men. They step softly, speak low, and are even-tempered. Their patrons do not worry them with questions, nor antagonize their views of the fitness of things.
When Abner reached his boarding house, after making his numerous calls, it was about five o'clock; as he went upstairs he noticed that the door of Strout's room was ajar. In response to his knock, the Professor said, "Come in."
"Wall, how do find things?" said Abner, as he entered the room.
"By lookin' for 'em," said the Professor, with a jaunty air.
"Oh, yer know what I mean," said Abner, throwing himself into a chair and looking inquiringly at Strout. "What was goin' on this noon 'tween you and that city feller?"
"Well, you see," continued Strout, "Mr. Sawyer and me have been at swords' points the las' two months over some pussonal matters. Well, he kinder wanted to fix up things, but he knew I wouldn't consent to let up on him 'less he treated me square; so I gets a third interest in the grocery store, the firm name is to be Strout & Maxwell, and I'm to be postmaster; so, you see, I got the best end after all, jest as I meant to from the fust. But, see here, Stiles, Mr. Sawyer and I have agreed to keep our business and our pussonal matters strictly private in the futer, and you mustn't drop a word of what I've told yer to any livin' soul."
"I've carried a good many of yer secrets 'round with me," responded Abner, "and never dropped one of 'em, as far as I know."
"Oh, yer all right, old man," said the Professor; "but, yer know, for the last two months our game has been to keep talkin'; now it will pay us best to keep our mouths shet."
"Mine's shut," said Abner; "now, what do I git? That job in the grocery store that you promised me?"
"Well, you see," said Strout, "when I made yer that promise, I expected to own the whole store, but now, yer see, Maxwell will want ter pick one of the men."
"Yis, I see," said Abner; "but that leaves one fer you to pick, and I'm ready to be picked."
"Yes, I know," answered Strout; "but the work is goin' to be very hard, liftin' barrels and big boxes, and I'm afraid you couldn't stand it very long."
A disappointed look came over Abner's face; he mused for a moment, then he broke out, "Yes, I see; I'm all right for light work, sech as tellin' lies 'bout people and spyin' out their actions, and makin' believe I've seen things that I never heard of, and hearin' things that were never said; but when it comes to good, clean, honest work, like liftin' barrels and rollin' hogshead's, the other feller gets the job. All right, Professor!" said he, getting up and walking towards the door; "when you want anythin' in my line, let me know." And he went out and slammed the door behind him.
As he went upstairs to his room, he said to himself, "I have sorter got the opinion that the Professor took what wuz given him, instid of gittin' what he asked fer. I kinder guess that it'll pay me to be much more partickler about number one in the futer than I've been."