JUD CARPENTER
An hour afterwards, Travis heard a well-known walk in the hall and opened the door.
He stepped back astonished. He released the knob and gazed half angry, half smiling.
A large dog, brindled and lean, walked complacently and condescendingly in, followed by his master. At a glance, the least imaginative could see that Jud Carpenter, the Whipper-in of the Acme Cotton Mills, and Bonaparte, his dog, were well mated.
The man was large, raw-boned and brindled, and he, also, walked in, complacently and condescendingly.
The dog's ears had been cropped to match his tail, which in his infancy had been reduced to a very few inches. His under jaw protruded slightly—showing the trace of bull in his make-up.
That was the man all over. Besides he had a small, mean, roguish ear.
The dog was cross-eyed—“the only cross-eyed purp in the worl'”—as his master had often proudly proclaimed, and the expression of his face was uncanny.
Jud Carpenter's eastern-eye looked west, and his western-eye looked east, and the rest of the paragraph above fitted him also.
The dog's pedigree, as his master had drawlingly proclaimed, was “p'yart houn', p'yart bull, p'yart cur, p'yart terrier, an' the rest of him—wal, jes' dog.”
Reverse this and it will be Carpenter's: Just dog, with a sprinkling of bull, cur, terrier, and hound.
Before Richard Travis could protest, the dog walked deliberately to the fireplace and sprang savagely on the helpless old setter dreaming on the rug. The older dog expostulated with terrific howls, while Travis turned quickly and kicked off the intruder.
He stood the kicking as quietly as if it were part of the programme in the last act of a melodrama in which he was the villain. He was kicked entirely across the room and his head was driven violently into the half-open door of the side-board. Here it came in contact with one of Cook-mother's freshly baked hams, set aside for the morrow's lunch. Without even a change of countenance—for, in truth, it could not change—without the lifting even of a hair in surprise, the brute seized the ham and settled right where he was, to lunch. And he did it as complacently as he had walked in, and with a satisfied growl which seemed to say that, so far as the villain was concerned, the last act of the melodrama was ending to his entire satisfaction.
Opening a side door, Travis seized him by the stump of a tail and one hind leg—knowing his mouth was too full of ham to bite anything—and threw him, still clutching the ham, bodily into the back yard. Without changing the attitude he found himself in when he hit the ground, the brindled dog went on with his luncheon.
The very cheek of it set Travis to laughing. He closed the door and said to the man who had followed the dog in: “Carpenter, if I had the nerve of that raw-boned fiend that follows you around, I'd soon own the world.”
The man had already taken his seat by the fire as unaffectedly as had the dog. He had entered as boldly and as indifferently and his two deep-set, cat-gray cross-eyes looked around as savagely.
He was a tall, lank fellow, past middle age, with a crop of stiff, red-brown hair, beginning midway of his forehead, so near to an equally shaggy and heavy splotch of eyebrows as to leave scarce a finger's breadth between them.
He was wiry and shrewd-looking, and his two deep-set eyes seemed always like a leopard's,—walking the cage of his face, hunting for some crack to slip through. Furtive, sly, darting, rolling hither and thither, never still, comprehensive, all-seeing, malicious and deadly shrewd. These were the eyes of Jud Carpenter, and they told it all. To this, add again that they looked in contrary directions.
As a man's eye, so is the tenor of his life.
Yet in them, now and then, the twinkle of humor shone. He had a conciliatory way with those beneath him, and he considered all the mill hands in that class. To his superiors he was a frowning, yet daring and even presumptuous underling.
Somewhat better dressed than the Hillites from whom he sprang was this Whipper-in of the Acme Cotton Mills—somewhat better dressed, and with the air of one who had arisen above his surroundings. Yet, withal, the common, low-born, malicious instinct was there—the instinct which makes one of them hate the man who is better educated, better dressed than he. All told, it might be summed up and said of Jud Carpenter that he had all the instincts of a Hillite and all the arrogance of a manager.
“Nobody understands that dog, Bonaparte, but me,” said Carpenter after a while—“he's to dogs what his namesake was to man. He's the champ'un fighter of the Tennessee Valley, an' the only cross-eyed purp in the worl', as I have often said. Like all gen'uses of course, he's a leetle peculiar—but him and me—we understan's each other.”
He pulled out some mill papers and was about to proceed to discuss his business when Travis interrupted:
“Hold on,” he said, good humoredly, “after my experience with that cross-eyed genius of a dog, I'll need something to brace me up.”
He handed Carpenter a glass and each drank off his cocktail at a quaff.
Travis settled quickly to business. He took out his mill books, and for an hour the two talked in a low tone and mechanically. The commissary department of the mill was taken up and the entire accounts gone over. Memoranda were made of goods to be ordered. The accounts of families were run over and inspected. It was tedious work, but Travis never flagged and his executive ability was quick and incisive. At last he closed the book with an impatient gesture:
“That's all I'll do to-night,” he muttered decisively. “I've other things to talk to you about. But we'll need something first.”
He went to the side-board and brought out a decanter of whiskey, two goblets and a bowl of loaf sugar.
He laughed: “Mammy knows nothing about this. Two cocktails are the limit she sets for me, and so I keep this private bottle.”
He made a long-toddy for himself, but Carpenter took his straight. In all of it, his furtive eyes, shining out of the splotch of eyebrows above, glanced inquiringly around and obsequiously followed every movement of his superior.
“Now, Carpenter,” said the Secretary after he had settled back in his chair and lit a cigar, handing the box afterwards to the other—“You know me—you and I—must understand each other in all things.”
“'Bleeged to be that way,” drawled the Whipper-in—“we must wu'ck together. You know me, an' that Jud Carpenter's motto is, 'mum, an' keep movin'.' That's me—that's Jud Carpenter.”
Travis laughed: “O, it's nothing that requires so much heavy villain work as the tone of your voice would suggest. We're not in a melodrama. This is the nineteenth century and we're talking business and going to win a thing or two by common sense and business ways, eh?”
Carpenter nodded.
“Well, now, the first is quite matter of fact—just horses. I believe we are going to have the biggest fair this fall we have ever had.”
“It's lots talked about,” said Carpenter—“'specially the big race an' purse you've got put up.”
Travis grew interested quickly and leaned over excitedly.
“My reputation is at stake—and that of The Gaffs' stable. You see, Carpenter, it's a three-cornered race for three-thousand dollars—each of us, Col. Troup, Flecker and me, have put up a thousand—three heats out of five—the winner takes the stake. Col. Troup, of Lenox, has entered a fast mare of his, and Flecker, of Tennessee, will be there with his gelding. I know Flecker's horse. I could beat him with Lizette and one of her legs tied up. I looked him over last week. Contracted heels and his owner hasn't got horse-sense to know it. It's horse-sense, Carpenter, that counts for success in life as in a race.”
Carpenter nodded again.
“But it's different with Col. Troup's entry. Ever been to Lenox?” he asked suddenly.
Carpenter shook his head.
“Don't know anybody there?” asked Travis. “I thought so—just what I want.”
He went on indifferently, but Carpenter saw that he was measuring his words and noting their effect upon himself. “They work out over there Tuesdays and Fridays—the fair is only a few weeks off—they will be stepping their best by Friday. Now, go there and say nothing—but just sit around and see how fast Col. Troup's mare can trot.”
“That'll be easy,” said Carpenter.
“I have no notion of losing my thousand and reputation, too.” He bent over to Carpenter and laughed. “All's fair in love and—a horse race. You know it's the 2:25 class, and I've entered Lizette, but Sadie B. is so much like her that no living man who doesn't curry them every day could tell them apart. Sadie B.'s mark is 2:15. Now see if Troup can beat 2:25. Maybe he can't beat 2:15.”
Then he laughed ironically.
Carpenter looked at him wonderingly.
It was all he said, but it was enough for Carpenter. Fraud's wink to the fraudulent is an open book. Her nod is the nod of the Painted Thing passing down the highway.
Base-born that he was—low by instinct and inheritance, he had never heard of so brilliant and so gentlemanly a piece of fraud. The consummate boldness of it made Carpenter's eyes twinkle—a gentleman and in a race with gentlemen—who would dare to suspect? It was the boldness of a fine woman, daring to wear a necklace of paste-diamonds.
He sat looking at Travis in silent admiration. Never before had his employer risen to such heights in the eyes of the Whipper-in. He sat back in his chair and chuckled. His furtive eyes danced.
“Nobody but a born gen'us 'ud ever have tho'rt of that,” he said—“never seed yo' e'kal—why, the money is your'n, any way you fix it. You can ring in Lizette one heat and Sadie B.”——
“There are things to be thought and not talked of,” replied Travis quickly. “For a man of your age ar'n't you learning to talk too much out loud? You go and find out what I've asked—I'll do the rest. I'm thinking I'll not need Sadie B. Never run a risk, even a dead sure one, till you're obliged to.”
“I'll fetch it next week—trust me for that. But I hope you will do it—ring in Sadie B. just for the fun of it. Think of old bay-window Troup trottin' his mare to death ag'in two fast horses an' never havin' sense enough to see it.”
He looked his employer over—from his neatly turned foot to the cravat, tied in an up-to-date knot. At that, even, Travis flushed. “Here,” he said—“another toddy. I'll trust you to bring in your report all right.”
Carpenter again took his straight—his eyes had begun to glitter, his face to flush, and he felt more like talking.
Travis lit another cigar. He puffed and smoked in silence for a while. The rings of smoke went up incessantly. His face had begun to redden, his fingers to thrill to the tip with pulsing blood. With it went his final contingency of reserve, and under it he dropped to the level of the base-born at his side.
Whiskey is the great leveler of life. Drinking it, all men are, indeed, equal.
“When are you going out to get in more hands for the mill?” asked Travis after a pause.
“To-morrow——”
“So soon?” asked Travis.
“Yes, you see,” said Carpenter, “there's been ha'f a dozen of the brats died this summer an' fall—scarlet fever in the mill.”
Travis looked at him and smiled.
“An' I've got to git in some mo' right away,” he went on. “Oh, there's plenty of 'em in these hills.”
Travis smoked for a few minutes without speaking.
“Carpenter, had you ever thought of Helen Conway—I mean—of getting Conway's two daughters into the mill?” He made the correction with a feigned indifference, but the other quickly noticed it. In an instant Carpenter knew.
As a matter of fact the Whipper-in had not thought of it, but it was easy for him to say what he thought the other wished him to say.
“Wal, yes,” he replied; “that's jes' what I had been thinkin' of. They've got to come in—'ristocrats or no 'ristocrats! When it comes to a question of bread and meat, pedigree must go to the cellar.”
“To the attic, you mean,” said Travis—“where their old clothes are.”
Carpenter laughed: “That's it—you all'ers say the k'rect thing. 'N' as I was sayin'”—he went on—“it is a ground-hog case with 'em. The Major's drunk all the time. His farm an' home'll be sold soon. He's 'bleeged to put 'em in the mill—or the po'-house.”
He paused, thinking. Then, “But ain't that Helen about the pretties' thing you ever seed?” He chuckled. “You're sly—but I seen you givin' her that airin' behin' Lizette and Sadie B.—”
“You've nothing to do with that,” said Travis gruffly. “You want a new girl for our drawing-in machine—the best paying and most profitable place in the mill—off from the others—in a room by herself—no contact with mill-people—easy job—two dollars a day—”
“One dollar—you forgit, suh—one dollar's the reg'lar price, sah,” interrupted the Whipper-in.
The other turned on him almost fiercely: “Your memory is as weak as your wits—two dollars, I tell you, and don't interrupt me again—”
“To be sho',” said the Whipper-in, meekly—“I did forgit—please excuse me, sah.”
“Then, in talking to Conway, you, of course, would draw his attention to the fact that he is to have a nice cottage free of rent—that will come in right handy when he finds himself out in the road—sold out and nowhere to go,” he said.
“'N' the commissary,” put in Carpenter quietly. “Excuse me, sah, but there's a mighty good bran' of whiskey there, you know!”
Travis smiled good humoredly: “Your wits are returning,” he said; “I think you understand.”
“I'll see him to-morrow,” said Carpenter, rising to go.
“Oh, don't be in a hurry,” said Travis.
“Excuse me, sah, but I'm afraid I've bored you stayin' too long.”
“Sit down,” said the other, peremptorily—“you will need something to help you along the road. Shall we take another?”
So they took yet another drink, and Carpenter went out, calling his dog.
Travis stood in the doorway and watched them go down the driveway. They both staggered lazily along. Travis smiled: “Both drunk—the dog on ham.”
As he turned to go in, he reeled slightly himself, but he did not notice it.
When he came back he was restless. He looked at the clock. “Too early for bed,” he said. “I'd give a ten if Charley Biggers were here with his little cocktail laugh to try me a game of poker.”
Suddenly he went to the window, and taking a small silver whistle from his pocket he blew it toward the stables. Soon afterwards a well dressed mulatto boy entered.
“How are the horses to-night, Jim?” he asked.
“Fine, sir—all eatin' well an' feelin' good.”
“And Coquette—the saddle mare?”
“Like split silk, sir.”
“Exercise her to-morrow under the saddle, and Sunday afternoon we will give Miss Alice her first ride on her—she's to be a present for her on her birth-day, you know—eh?”
Jim bowed and started out.
“You may fix my bath now—think I'll retire. O Jim!” he called, “see that Antar, the stallion, is securely stalled. You know how dangerous he is.”
He was just dozing off when the front door closed with a bang.
Then a metal whip handle thumped heavily on the floor and the jingling of a spur rattled over the hall floor, as Harry Travis boisterously went down the hall, singing tipsily,
“Oh, Johnny, my dear,
Just think of your head,
Just think of your head
In the morning.”
Another door banged so loudly it awakened even the setter. The old dog came to the side of the bed and laid his head affectionately in Travis' palm. The master of The Gaffs stroked his head, saying: “It is strange that I love this old dog so.”