MRS. HAWKINS' BOARDING HOUSE.
Mrs. Hawkins waited patiently until eight o'clock for the gentleman from Boston to come down to breakfast. She then waited impatiently from eight o'clock till nine. During that time she put the breakfast on the stove to keep it warm, and also made several trips to the front entry, where she listened to see if she could hear any signs of movement on the part of her new boarder.
When nine o'clock arrived she could restrain her impatience no longer, and, going upstairs, she gave a sharp knock on the door of Quincy's room.
"What is it?" answered a voice, somewhat sharply.
"It's nine o'clock, and your breakfast's most dried up," replied Mrs. Hawkins.
"I don't wish for any breakfast," said the voice within the room, but in a much pleasanter tone. "What time do you have dinner?"
"Twelve o'clock," said Mrs. Hawkins.
"All right," answered the voice, cheerfully. "I'll take my breakfast and dinner together."
"That beats all," said Mrs. Hawkins, as she entered the kitchen.
"What beats all?" asked Betsy Green, who worked for Mrs. Hawkins.
"It beats all," repeated Mrs. Hawkins, "how these city folks can sit up till twelve o'clock at night, and then go without their breakfast till noontime. I've fixed up somethin' pretty nice for him, and I don't propose to see it wasted."
"What are you goin' to do with it?" asked Betsy. "'Twon't keep till to-morrer mornin'."
"I'm goin' to eat it myself," said Mrs. Hawkins. And suiting the action to the word, she transferred the appetizing breakfast to the kitchen table, and, taking a seat, began to devour it.
"Have you seen your sister, Samanthy, lately?" she asked.
"I was up there Sunday evening," replied Betsy, "and she said Mis' Putnam was failin' very fast. She keeps her bed all the time now, and Samanthy has to run up and down stairs, 'bout forty times a day. She won't let Miss Lindy do a thing for her."
"Well, if I was Lindy," said Mrs. Hawkins, "I wouldn't do anything for her if she wanted me to. She used to abuse that child shamefully. Is Miss Lindy goin' to keep house arter her mother dies?"
"No," said Betsy, "she's got her things all packed up, and she told Samanthy she should leave town for well and good as soon as her mother was buried."
"I don't blame her," exclaimed Mrs. Hawkins. "Where's Samanthy goin'?"
"Oh, she says she wants to rest awhile afore she goes anywheres else to live. She's all run down."
"P'r'aps she'll go and stay with yer mother for a while."
"No," said Betsy, "she won't go there."
"Ain't yer mother 'n' her on good terms?"
"Oh, yes," replied Betsy, "but the four boys send mother five dollars a month apiece, and us girls give her two dollars a month apiece, and it's understood that none of us is to go and loaf 'round at home, 'less we pay our board."
"That's all right," said Mrs. Hawkins. "You can tell Samanthy for me that she can come here and stay a couple o' weeks with you. Your bed's big enough for two, and I won't charge her no board if she's willin' to wait on table at dinner time. You'll get the benefit of it, ye know, Betsy, for you kin get the dinner dishes done so much earlier."
"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Hawkins," said Betsy, and the conversation lapsed for a moment till she inquired, "Will your daughter Mandy stay with Mr. Pettengill arter he marries Huldy Mason?"
"I don't know," replied Mrs. Hawkins. "Mandy says that Hiram Maxwell is the biggest fool of a man she ever saw."
"Then she must think a good deal of him," laughed Betsy.
"Wall, I fancy she does," replied Mrs. Hawkins; "and I've no objections to him, seein' as that Mr. Sawyer is goin' to put him inter the grocery store and back him up. But Mandy says that he won't come to the pi'nt. He hints and hints and wobbles all 'round the question, but he don't ask her to marry him right out and out. Mandy says she won't gin in until he does, for if she does, she says he'll be chuckin' it at her one of these days that he didn't ask her to marry him and be sayin' as how she threw herself at him, but there's too much of the old Job Skinner spirit in Mandy for her to do anythin' like that."
At this moment Mrs. Hawkins looked up and saw Hiram Maxwell standing in the half-open doorway that led into the wood-shed.
"List'ners never hear any good of themselves," remarked Mrs. Hawkins, as Hiram advanced into the room.
"I didn't hear nothin'," said Hiram. "I've got too many things in my head to tell yer to mind any women's talk," he continued.
"What is it?" cried Mrs. Hawkins and Betsy simultaneously.
"Well, fust," said Hiram, "early this mornin' your sister Samanthy," here he looked at Betsy, "came tearin' down to Deacon Mason's house and said as how Mis' Hepsey Putnam was powerful bad, and she wanted me to run down to 'Zeke Pettengill's and have him bring his sister right up to the house, 'cause Mis' Putnam wanted to see her afore she died, and the Deacon's wife said as how I could go up with him and her, and so we druv up, and a little while ago your sister Samanthy," here he looked at Betsy again, "asked me if I'd drive over and ask Mis' Hawkins if you," here he looked at Betsy for the third time, "could come up and stay with her this arternoon, for she thinks Mis' Putnam is goin' to die, and she don't want to be left alone up in that big house."
An Old-fashioned Husking Bee. (Act III.)—Penalty of red ear.
Betsy looked at Mrs. Hawkins inquiringly.
Mrs. Hawkins saw the glance and said, "I can't spare yer till arter dinner, Betsy; say 'bout one o'clock. You kin go and stay till the fust thing to-morrer mornin'. I guess I kin manage supper alone."
"Samanthy will be much obleeged, Mis' Hawkins," said Hiram. "I'll drive right back and tell her, and I'll drive down agin about one o'clock arter Betsy."
"List'ners get a good p'int now and then," remarked Hiram to himself. "Now I see what made Mandy so durned offish. Wall, she won't have any excuse in the future. I guess I kin ask her a straight question when I git good and ready, Mother Hawkins." And he struck the horse such a violent blow with the whip that it required all his attention for the next few minutes to bring him down to a trot. When he had done so he had reached his destination and his resentful feelings had subsided.
After Hiram had gone, Mrs. Hawkins and Betsy busied themselves getting dinner. Happening to glance out of the window, the former exclaimed, "Why, there's Jonas, and what on airth has he got in his hands?"
Betsy ran to the window and looked out.
"I guess it's a head of lettuce," said she.
At that moment the door opened and Jonas Hawkins entered, bearing a huge head of lettuce in his hand.
"Wall, Marthy," said Mr. Hawkins, "how did the man from Bosting like his breakfast? I kalkilated them fresh-laid eggs would suit him to a T."
"He ain't got up yet," replied Mrs. Hawkins.
"Must have been putty tired," continued Mr. Hawkins. "I kinder envy him. Do yer know, Marthy, if I wuz rich I wouldn't 'git up any day till it wuz time to go to bed agin." And he laughed loudly at his own remark.
"What do yer expect me to do with that head of lettuce?" asked Mrs. Hawkins with some asperity in her tone.
"Wall," said Jonas, "I was over to Hill's grocery and he'd ordered some from Bosting for Mis' Putnam, but she's too sick to eat 'em, so Sam gave me this one, 'cause we're putty good customers, you know, and I kalkilated that if you made up one of them nice chicken salads o' yourn it might please the new boarder and the old ones too;" and chuckling to himself he laid the lettuce on the kitchen table and walked out into the wood-shed. In a few moments he was vigorously at work chopping wood, whistling to himself as he worked.
"Mr. Hawkins is an awful good-natured man, isn't he?" asked Betsy.
"Yes," replied Mrs. Hawkins, "he's too all-fired good-natured for his own good. If I'd known him twenty-five years ago he'd have money in the bank now. His fust wife wuz slacker'n dish water. But I guess we've talked enough for one mornin', Betsy. You jest git that chicken I boiled and bone it and chop it up, and I'll make the dressin'."
When twelve o'clock sounded from the bell in the church tower, dinner was on the table at Mrs. Hawkins's boarding house. By five minutes past twelve there were fourteen seated at the table, with one vacant chair. Professor Strout sat at the head of the table. At his left was Abner Stiles, while Robert Wood sat next to Stiles. The vacant seat was at the Professor's right hand, and all eyes were turned toward it, for all had heard of the Boston man who had arrived the night before, but who, much to their disappointment, had not appeared at breakfast.
At ten minutes past twelve the door leading into the dining-room from the front entry was opened quietly, and the young man who entered, seeing the vacant chair near the head of the table, took possession of it.
For a moment nobody looked up, each apparently waiting for some one else to take the initiative.
Quincy, for it was he, broke the silence, and immediately every face at the table was turned towards him.
"How do you do, Professor?" said he. "Good afternoon, Mr. Stiles and Mr. Wood. Ah, glad to see you, Mr. Hill," he added, as he espied Samuel Hill at the farther end of the table.
The Professor's face grew crimson, then bright red, and finally assumed a bluish tinge. Abner sat transfixed. The others at the table had a charming diversity of expressions on their faces, ranging from "grave to gay, from lively to severe." No one at the table enjoyed the situation any more than Samuel Hill, who was very fond of a joke and who knew of Quincy's intention to meet his enemy at close quarters.
For several minutes no one spoke. Betsy flew from one to the other waiting upon table, but a solemn hush seemed to have fallen upon the dinner party. Again Quincy broke the silence.
"I trust, gentlemen," said he, "that you will not let my presence interfere with your usual conversation. I have no doubt Mr. Stiles can tell us a good story, and I am equally sure that Professor Strout has some entertaining bit of village gossip that he would like to circulate."
Here Samuel Hill purposely dropped his fork upon the floor and was obliged to get under the table to recover it, Betsy assisting him in the search. When they emerged from under the table their faces were red with their exertions.
As we have seen on other occasions, the Professor was very quick in rescuing himself from any dilemma into which he might be thrown. He saw an opportunity to divert attention from himself and speedily improved it.
"I think I'll have to walk over and see Miss Tilly James this afternoon," said the Professor.
At this shot at Samuel Hill and Betsy everybody laughed, including Quincy, and thus the ice was broken.
"I've heard some pretty big lies told in my life," said Robert Wood, "but I think Abel Coffin, yer know him, Professor, old Jonathan Coffin's son, the one that goes carpenterin', he lives over in Montrose, yer know, can beat anybody we've got in this town, not exceptin' you, Stiles;" and he gave the latter a nudge with his elbow that nearly knocked him out of his chair.
"Tell us the story, Robert," said the Professor, who had recovered his self-complacency; "we're dyin' to hear it."
"Well," continued Robert Wood, "Abel had been shinglin' a house, and I told him there wuz a place where he'd left off a shingle. Abel laughed and, sez he, 'If I hadn't better eyesight than you've got I'd carry a telescope 'round with me.' 'Well,' sez I, thinkin' I'd fool him, 'let's see which one of us has got the best eyesight.' I pointed up to the ridgepole of the house, which was 'bout a hundred feet off from where we stood, and sez I to Abel, 'Can you see that fly walkin' along on the ridgepole near the chimney? I ken.' Abel put his hand up back of his ear, and sez he, 'No, I can't see him, but I can hear him walkin' 'round.'"
As Robert concluded, a loud shout of laughter went up from the table. Quincy had no desire to be considered "stuck up," so he joined in the laugh, although he had heard the story in a different form before.
So had the Professor, and he never allowed an old story to be told in his presence without working in two lines of doggerel which he had composed, and of which he was very proud. So, turning to Robert Wood he said patronizingly, "That was very well told, Robert. The story is an old one, but you worked it up very nicely; but," continued the Professor, "as I have often remarked on similar occasions:
It makes no difference whether a story's new or old,
Everything depends on the way it's told."
Turning quickly to Quincy he said, "No doubt Mr. Sawyer can favor us with a story that we've never heard before."
Quincy was a little taken aback, for the appeal was unexpected, but he quickly recovered his self-possession and said in a low but pleasant voice, "I am afraid that my story will have to depend on the way it is told rather than upon its novelty." He wondered if his hearers were acquainted with the travels of Baron Munchausen, but decided to try the experiment. "About a year ago," resumed Quincy, "I went down to Maine on some law business. I transacted it, but had to travel some ten miles to the county town to record my papers. I had a four-wheeled buggy, and a strong, heavily-built horse. It began to snow very fast after I started, but I knew the road and drove steadily on. As I approached the county town I noticed that the snow was deeper than the highest building in the town, in fact, none of the town was visible, excepting about three feet of the spire of the tallest church in the place."
Quincy stopped and glanced about the table. Every eye was fastened upon him, and all, including the Professor and Stiles particularly, were listening intently. Quincy continued his story:
"I was well supplied with buffalo robes, so after tying my horse firmly to the weather vane on the spire, I made up a bed on the snow with my buffalo robes, and slept soundly and comfortably all night. When I woke in the morning I was still enveloped in the robes, but found to my surprise that I was lying upon the ground. I looked around, but there was no sign of snow anywhere. I arose and looked about for my horse and buggy, but they were not in sight. Then I remembered that I had tied my horse to the weather vane. Casting my eyes upward I saw my horse and buggy hanging by the strap, the horse having secured a footing on the side of the spire. Happily I had a revolver with me, and with one shot I severed the broad leathern strap. Naturally the horse and buggy fell to the ground. I put my buffalo robes back into the buggy, rode to the court house, had my papers recorded, and then drove back ten miles to town, none the worse for my adventure, but the stableman charged me fifty cents for the strap that I was obliged to leave on the church spire."
A number of low whistles, intermixed with several "whews!" were heard, as Quincy finished his story.
"Wall, by thunder!" ejaculated Stiles, "how do yer account for—"
"I think it must have been a sudden thaw," remarked Quincy, with a grave face.
"One thing puzzles me," said the Professor.
"What is that?" asked Quincy politely, "perhaps I can explain."
"Before you left the church," asked the Professor, "why didn't you reach up and ontie that strap?"
Another loud shout of laughter broke from the company, and Quincy, realizing that the Professor had beaten him fairly by putting a point on his own story, joined heartily in the laugh at his own expense.
"That reminds me," said Abner Stiles, "of an adventure that I had several years ago, down in Maine, when I wuz younger and spryer'n I am now."
"How old be you?" said the Professor.
"Wall," replied Abner, "the family Bible makes me out to be fifty-eight, but jedgin' from the fun I've had I'm as old as Methooserlar."
This remark gave Stiles the preliminary laugh, which he always counted upon when he told a story.
"Did yer ever meet a b'ar?" asked he, directing his remark to Quincy.
"Yes," said Quincy, "I've stood up before one many a time."
"Well, really," exclaimed Abner, "how'd yer come off?"
"Usually with considerable less money than when I went up," replied Quincy, seeing that Abner was mystified.
"What?" said Abner. "I mean a real black b'ar, one of those big, shaggy fellers sech as you meet in the woods down in Maine."
"Oh," said Quincy, "I was talking about an open bar, such as you find in bar-rooms and hotels."
This time the laugh was on Abner, and he was considerably nettled by it.
"Go on, Abner, go on!" came from several voices, and thus reassured, he continued:
"Wall, as I wuz goin' to say, I was out partridge shooting down in Maine several years ago, and all I had with me was a fowlin' piece and a pouch of bird shot. In fact, I didn't have any shot left, for I'd killed 'bout forty partridges. I had a piece of strong twine with me, so I tied their legs together and slung 'em over my shoulder. I was jest goin' to start for hum when I heerd the boughs crackin' behind me, and turnin' 'round I saw—Geewhillikins!—a big black b'ar not more'n ten feet from me. I had nothin' to shoot him with, and knew that the only way to save my life wuz to run for it. I jest bent over and threw the partridges on the ground, thinkin' as I did so that perhaps the b'ar would stop to eat them, and I could git away. I started to run, but caught my toe in some underbrush and went down ker-slap. I said all the prayers I knew in 'bout eight seconds, then got up, and started to run ag'in. Like Lot's wife, I couldn't help lookin' back, and there wuz the b'ar flat on his back. I went up to him kinder cautious, for I didn't know but he might be shammin', them black b'ars are mighty cute; but, no, he wuz deader'n a door nail. I took the partridges back to town, and then a party on us came back and toted the b'ar home."
Every one sat quietly for a moment, then Quincy asked with a sober face, "What caused the bear's death; was it heart disease?"
"No," said Abner, "'twas some sort of brain trouble. Yer see, when I threw those partridges onter the ground it brought a purty powerful strain onto my galluses. When we cut the b'ar up we found one of my pants buttons right in the centre of his brain."
Abner's story was greeted with those signs of approval that were so dear to his heart, and Quincy, realizing that when you are in Rome you must do as the Romans do, was not backward in his applause.
All eyes were now turned to the Professor.
"I don't think," said he, "that I can make up a lie to match with those that have jist been told, but if any of you are enough interested in the truth to want to listen to a true story, I kin tell you one that came under my observation a few days ago."
All looked inquiringly at Strout, but none spoke.
"Wall," said he, "I s'pose I must consider as how silence means consent, and go ahead. Wall" he continued, "you all know, or most all on yer do, old Bill Tompkins, that lives out on the road to Montrose. This occurrence took place early las' summer. Old Bill hisself is too close-mouthed to let on about it, but when I was over there the other day, arter givin' Lizzy Tompkins her music-lesson, I got talkin' with her mother, and one thing led to another, and finally I got the whole story outer her. Old Bill had a cow that they called 'Old Jinnie.' She was always mischeevous, but last year she'd been wusser'n ever. She'd git out of the barn nights, and knock down fences, and tramp down flower gardens, and everybody said she wuz a pesky noosance. One night old Bill and his family wuz seated 'round the centre table in the sittin'-room. There wuz Mary, his wife; and George, his oldest boy, a young fellow about eighteen; Tommy, who is a ten-year-older, and little Lizzy, who is about eight. George wuz readin' somethin' out of a paper to 'em, when they heerd a-runnin' and a-jumpin', and old Bill said, 'That varmint's got out of the barn and is rampagin' 'round agin,' The winder curt'ins wuz up, and old Jinnie must 'a' seed the light, for she run pell-mell agin the house, and drove her horns through the winder, smashin' four panes. Old Bill and George managed to git her back inter the barn and tied her up.
"As they wuz walking back to the house, old Bill said, 'Consarn her picter, I'll make beef o' her to-morrer or my name ain't Bill Tompkins,' When they got back to the settin'-room, George said, 'How be yer goin' ter do it, dad?' 'Why, cut her throat,' said Bill. 'You can't do it,' said George, 'the law sez yer must shoot her fust in the temple,' 'All right,' said old Bill, 'you shoot and I'll carve,' So next mornin' they led old Jinnie out with her head p'inted towards the barn. George had loaded up the old musket, and stood 'bout thirty feet off. George didn't know just edzactly where the cow's temple wuz, but he imagined it must be somewhere atween her eyes, so he fired and hit her squar' in the forehead. That was enough for old Jinnie, she jist ducked her head, and with a roar like the bull of Bashan she put for George. He dropped the musket and went up the ladder inter the haymow livelier'n he ever did before, you kin bet. Old Jinnie struck the ladder and knocked it galley-west. Old Jinnie then turned 'round and spied little Tommy. He put, and she put arter him. There wasn't nothin' else to do, so Tommy took a high jump and landed in the pig-sty. Old Bill is kinder deef in one ear, and he didn't notice much what wuz goin' on on that side of him. He was runnin' the grindstone and puttin' a good sharp edge on his butcher knife, when he happened to look up and seed old Jinnie comin' head on. He dropped the knife and started for the house, thinkin' he'd dodge in the front door. Over went the grindstone and old Jinnie, too, but she wuz up on her feet ag'in quicker'n scat. She seemed to scent the old man, for when she got to the front door she turned in and then bolted right into the parlor. Old Bill heerd her comin', and he went head fust through the open winder, and landed in the orchard. He got up and run for a big apple-tree that stood out near the road, and never stopped till he'd clumb nearly to the top. Little Lizzie gave a yell like a catamount and ran behind the pianner, which was sot out a little from the wall. Old Jinnie went bunt inter the planner and made a sandwich of Lizzie, who wuz behind it. Mis' Tompkins heard Lizzie scream, and come to see what the matter was. When she see Jinnie she jist made strides for the wood-shed, and old Jinnie sashayed arter her. Mis' Tompkins went skitin' through the wood-shed. There wuz a pair of steps that led up inter the corn barn, and Mis' Tompkins got up there jist as old Jinnie walked off with the steps. Then old Jinnie took a walk outside and looked 'round as unconsarned as though nothin' had happened. Jist about this time one of them tin peddlers come along that druv one of them red carts with pots, and pans, and kittles, and brooms, and brushes, and mops hung all over it. He spied old Bill up in the tree, and sez he, 'What be yar doin', Farmer Tompkins?' 'Pickin' apples,' said old Bill. He don't waste words on nobody. 'Ain't it rather early for apples?' inquired the peddler. 'These are some I forgot to pick last fall,' replied old Bill. 'Anythin' in my line?' said the peddler. 'Ain't got no money,' said Bill. 'Hain't you got something you want to trade?' asked the peddler. 'Yes,' said Bill, 'I'll swap that cow over yonder; you kin have her for fifteen dollars, an' I'll take it all in trade,' 'Good milker?' said the man. 'Fust-class butter,' said old Bill. 'What do you want in trade?' said the man. 'Suit yerself,' said Bill, 'chuck it down side of the road there.' This was soon done, and the peddler druv up front of old Jinnie and went to git her, so as to tie her behind his waggin. She didn't stop to be led. Down went her head agin and she made for the peddler. He got the other side of his team jist as old Jinnie druv her horns 'tween the spokes of the forrard wheel. Down come the pots, and pans, and kittles, in ev'ry direction. A clotheshorse fell on the horse's back and off he started on a dead run, and that wuz the end of poor Jinnie. Before she could pull back her horns, round went the wheel and broke her neck. The peddler pulled up his horse and went back to see old Bill, who was climbin' down from the apple tree. 'What am I goin' to do about this?' said the peddler. 'I wuz countin' on drivin' her over to the next town and sellin' her or tradin' her off, but I hain't got no use for fresh beef.' 'Wall,' said old Bill, 'considering circumstances we'll call the trade off. You kin keep your stuff and I'll keep my beef.' The peddler loaded up and druv off. Then old Bill went in and pulled Lizzie out from behind the pianner, and put up the steps so Mrs. Tompkins could come down from the corn barn, and fished Tommy out of the pig-sty, and threw a bucket of water over him, and put up the ladder so George could git down from the haymow, and they all got round poor old Jinnie and stood as hard as they could and laughed." Here Professor Strout pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. "That's how old Bill Tompkins got his beef."
There was a general laugh and a pushing back of chairs, and the whole company arose and went in various directions to their afternoon work. Professor Strout went into the front entry, for he always entered and left the house by the front door. Quincy followed him, and closing the door that led into the dining-room, said, "Mr. Strout, I would like to see you in my room for half an hour on important business."
"I guess 'tain't as important as some business of my own I've got to attend to this arternoon. I'm goin' over to the Centre to fix up my accounts as tax collector with the town treasurer."
"I think my business is fully as important as that," said Quincy, "it relates to your appointment as postmaster."
"Oh, you've got a hand in that, have yer?" asked Strout, an angry flush suffusing his face.
"I have both hands in it," replied Quincy imperturbably, "and it rests with you entirely whether I keep hold or let go."
"Wall," said Strout, looking at his watch, "I kin spare you half an hour, if it will be as great an accommodation to yer as yer seem to think it will."
And he followed Quincy upstairs to the latter's room.