“I want to do that way.”
This was the answer Walter made audibly. What he added silently, and what he repeated as he was going to the station, was this: “Uncle Boardman can afford to talk, for Uncle Boardman practices. I don’t care how much I have of that man’s religion. ‘Make the best of things,’ he said. I wonder if he isn’t having a hard time in his mill business with Baggs, and if it don’t come hard to be cheerful!”
It did “come hard be cheerful,” for Uncle Boardman had only been a fly in the web of that spider, “Belzebub” Baggs. To erect the mill and inaugurate the business there, Uncle Boardman had been obliged to put on his home a mortgage, additional to one already existing. The first burden, the house might have sustained; but under the additional pressure of the second, the house threatened, as a piece of of Blake property, to collapse. Did not the fly know he was walking into a spider’s web, when “Belzebub” came, and spoke soft words, and made extravagant promises? The fly was suspicious, but the spider showed him a recommendation from two men of excellent judgment whom he personally knew. Enticed by the assurance that B. Baggs was a man of business, a man of money, and a man of morals, the fly walked into the spider’s web. Discovering his mistake, Uncle Boardman was now trying to rectify it; refusing to place any more money in the mill enterprise. And didn’t the spider threaten vengeance! Didn’t he turn on the poor fly, and torment him with the fact that he held a certain note against him almost due, and whose payment he would press!
“Oh!” thought Uncle Boardman. “It’s that note for $500, which I lost somehow, and then I gave him another. Well!”
That was all the fly could say. He knew he had made mistakes, but they were mistakes based on the opinion of those whom he supposed he could trust. Now that the toils of the spider were closing about him, he was doing his best to struggle out of them.
“I won’t, though, make others just miserable with my troubles,” he declared. “I won’t give up. I’ll—I’ll—”
When he reached this place, Boardman Blake always looked up; and amid the storm clouds, steadily gathering, not slowly but rapidly increasing, he could see one little place that held a star.
“I’ll trust my Heavenly Father,” he said, trying to be cheerful, patiently bearing Aunt Lydia’s reflections, (those were rather gingery at first), good–naturedly standing up, and taking the raillery of his neighbors also. Aunt Lydia! She was gingery at first, peppery even, and that of the cayenne sort, but when she understood the nature of the influence brought to bear upon her husband, that he had been guided by the judgment of others, who were supposed to be wiser, she sheathed her tongue in all possible charity. She played the part of the true wife, and silently looking at him through the eyes of a woman’s pity, stood by him, and defended him, with all of a woman’s devotion and courage.
As Walter neared the station, there was a sneer leaning against the door, and this sneer was two–legged: it was Joe Cardridge. It was a mild December day, and he was lazily enjoying its sunshine. As Walter approached, he superciliously looked him over, and said “Hullo, surf–boy!”
“How are ye!” replied Walter pleasantly.