I decided to have an all-day job, and let the school go.
“All right,” he said, “we’ll see about it.”
My father made no fuss about leaving the small town where he had spent ten years of his life. He had no close friends or cronies. After my mother died, he seldom spoke to any one but me, and I think he was glad to go away. He was a cold, hard, silent Scotch-Irishman. He took no part in social doings, never went to church, belonged to no clubs; nor was he enough interested in politics to become a citizen and exercise the high privilege of voting on election day.
My good-bys did not take much time. Cy was sorry to have me go. He laboriously wrote me a fine letter of recommendation which he gave me along with a large, worn silver watch, that wound with a key. It weighed almost a pound, and I was proportionately proud of it. My boy friends envied me in going away to a big city and impressed upon me the necessity for taking my pistols with me. Unnecessary advice; I had no intention of leaving them behind.
And last of all I hunted up old Beverly Shannon, the bad man. He was a hooknosed old man with hard eyes and a long chin whisker dripping tobacco juice. He had worn the Northern blue, and drew a small pension for a “bad leg.” Times when he was half drunk, limping around town in search of more drinks, some one would say: “Look out, ‘Bev.’ You’re limpin’ on the wrong leg.” This always brought a string of eloquent curses from him, and a warning that they had “better be keerful. I hain’t stopped killin’ jest ’cause Abe Lincoln says the war’s over.”
In those days all roads led to the harness shop, and there “old Bev” was always to be found when sober, outside the shop on a bench under a tree. There he met all the droughty farmers and entertained them with war stories and tales of his wanderings “out West.” He was always invited to drink with them. His pension kept him in food. His life held no serious problem.
I found him on his bench, sober and sorry for it. He passed the time of day with me, and I told him I was going away and had come to say good-by.
“Goin’ to the city, huh? Well, don’t let ’em rub it into you. You ain’t a very strong boy.” He was a foxy old man. He leered at me out of his cunning eyes. “Have you got any shootin’ irons?” Long John Silver, the pirate, could not have done any better in the way of complimenting a boy. I was fairly hooked. I assured him that I was well heeled, having two pistols.
“That’s good. You’ll git along all right. Now you run along. I’ve got to git me a farmer. I ain’t had my whisky yet.”
I hastily dug up enough silver out of my small pocket money for a couple of drinks, and gave it to him. As I went away I thought he looked like an old spider watching his web for a fly.