With Orasmus Nute and a black flag crew—
The tale of the upright course he went
In the face of a certain predicament.
—Ballad of “Orasmus Nute.”
There was at least one secret in his life that “Fig-ger-Four” Avery kept. He never told what inspired Imogene to make her dash for liberty.
Squire Phin didn’t exactly understand the tableau he had beheld, and charitably refrained from mentioning to his brother how music, as rendered by Uncle Wharff, failed to soothe the savage breast. As for Hiram, he did not seem to be interested enough to ask any questions.
Whenever he mentioned the elephant’s escapade to Peak, he referred to the affair with a sort of grim blithesomeness.
Weeks afterward, when the first damp, swirling snow of winter was clotting itself on the windows of the little sitting-room, he sat for a long time, figuring in a grimy account book with a stubby lead pencil. Every once in a while he chuckled.
“J. B. Sawtelle,” he murmured, “items: four begonies and three geraniums mashed in front yard, one washin’ scattered hoorah-ste’-boy—say, Sime, Imogene with a night gown on one tush and a pair of J. B.‘s flannel drawers flyin’ distress from the other, and sheddin’ assorted articles such as found on a well-regulated clothes-line, as she hurrooped down through the beech growth, must have been worth double the price of a high-dive feature.”
His shoulders, hunched in the rocking-chair, shook with suppressed mirth.