CHAPTER IX.
A FREQUENT caller at the Wycliff home was “Uncle Jerry� Barnaby. He was always welcome, being an old friend, the acquaintance between the two families dating back to the time when both occupied farms in Sprucemont—the little hill-town, richer in broad views and fresh air than in salable commodities.
“Oh, I was a king, then!� said Uncle Jerry. “Only think of those beautiful fields of grass and grain that I used to have.�
“And how much labor you spent in getting out the rocks and improving the land, before you could have those crops,� replied Mrs. Wycliff.
“Yes, I was the first farmer in all that region to use dynamite, both on my farm and on the highways. Oh, I was a king then; king of my own farm, anyway. And now I am a slave to these sleek villains, the Baldwins. The tears come to my eyes whenever I think of those old times; and of those sleek cattle that had been petted so much by my wife and the girls that it seemed like sacrilege to sell them; they seemed to belong to the family.� And Uncle Jerry burst into tears at his own recital of former glories.
“To think that I should have come to this,� exclaimed Uncle Jerry. “To be a slave,—a poor, despised, down-trodden slave for the Baldwins,—and I used to be a king of two hundred acres in Sprucemont.
“And those colts, the beautiful creatures. When I went into the pasture they would come up to me and lay their noses on my cheeks, and almost talk to me. How many colts I have raised to be fine horses, and sold for good prices, and my wife and daughters could always ride anywhere they chose, and to-day—� and Uncle Jerry could not proceed for some minutes for sobbing.
“To-day,� he continued, at length, “My poor dear girl is pining away for the fresh air. I heard yesterday that Zack Baldwin had an old horse that he was going to kill. I might have known that I would be refused, but I was thinking only of my poor dear girl, and I went and begged him to let me have the old horse. I promised him it should never do anything but draw the poor girl the little way she is able to ride.�
“Didn’t he let you have it?� asked Mrs. Wycliff, full of sympathy.
“Of course not. It wouldn’t make any big sound, you know, like giving a half a million dollars to a library. It might, possibly, have saved my daughter’s life. He ordered the horse taken out and shot before my eyes. I felt as if those shots sounded my daughter’s doom. I might have known that a man who would discharge me for getting the policemen’s pay raised, would refuse me an old horse which might save my daughter’s life.�