Part 14

“I don't believe in sech fine feathers,” said Bishop, argumentatively. “I'd a leetle ruther wait till we see whether Wilson's a-goin' to put that road through--then we _could_ afford to put on a dab or two o' style. I don't know but I'd move down to Atlanta an' live alongside o' Bill, an' wear a claw-hammer coat an' a dicky cravat fer a change.”

“Then you mought run fer the legislatur',” spoke up Abner Daniel, who had been an amused listener, “an' git up a law to pen up mad dogs at the dangerous part o' the yeer. Alf, I've always thought you'd be a' ornament to the giddy whirl down thar. William was ever' bit as green as you are when he fust struck the town. But he had the advantage o' growin' up an' sorter ripenin' with the place. It ud be hard on you at yore time o' life.”

At this juncture Alan called their attention to a horseman far down the road. “It looks like Ray Miller's mare,” he remarked. “This is one of his busy days; he can' t be coming to fish.”

“Railroad news,” suggested Abner. “It's a pity you hain't connected by telegraph.”

They were all now sure that it was Miller, and with no little curiosity they moved nearer the gate.

“By gum! he's been givin' his mare the lash,” said Abner. “She's fairly kivered with froth.”

“Hello, young man,” Alan called out, as Miller dismounted at a hitching-post just outside the fence and fastened his bridle-rein. “Glad to see you; come in.”

Miller bowed and smiled as he opened the gate and came forward to shake hands.

“We are certainly glad you came, Mr. Miller,” said Mrs. Bishop, with all her quaint cordiality. “Ever since that day in the office I've wanted a chance to show you how much we appreciate what you done fer us. Brother Ab will bear me out when I say we speak of it mighty nigh ever'day.”

Miller wore an inexpressible look of embarrassment, which he tried to lose in the act of shaking hands all round the group, but his platitudes fell to the ground. Abner, the closest observer among them, already had his brows drawn together as he pondered Miller's unwonted lack of ease.

“Bring any fishing-tackle?” asked Alan.

“No, I didn't,” said the lawyer, jerking himself to that subject awkwardly. “The truth is, I only ran out for a little ride. I've got to get back.”

“Then it _is_ business, as brother Ab said,” put in Mrs. Bishop, tentatively.

Miller lowered his eyes to the ground and then raised them to Alan's face.

“Yes, it's railroad business,” said Abner, his voice vibrant with suspense.

“And it's not favorable,” said Alan, bravely. “I can see that by your looks.”

Miller glanced at his mare, and lashed the leg of his top-boots with his riding-whip. “No, I have bad news, but it's not about the railroad. I could have written, but I thought I'd better come myself.”

“Adele!” gasped Mrs. Bishop. “You have heard--”

“No, she's well,” said Miller. “It's about the money you put in Craig's bank.”

“What about that?” burst from old Bishop's startled lips.

“Craig claims Winship has absconded with all the cash. The bank has failed.”

“Failed!” The word was a moan from Bishop, and for a moment no one spoke. A negro woman at the wash-place behind the house was using a batting-stick on some clothing, and the dull blows came to them distinctly.

“Is that so, Ray?” asked Alan, calm but pale to the lips.

“I'm sorry to say it is.”

“Can anything at all be done?”

“I've done everything possible already. We have been telegraphing the Atlanta police all morning about tracing Winship, but they don't seem much interested. They think he's had too big a start on us. You see, he's been gone two days and nights. Craig says he thought he was on a visit to relatives till he discovered the loss last night.”

“It simply spells ruin, old man,” said Alan, grimly. “I can see that.”

Miller said nothing for a moment--then:

“It's just as bad as it could be, my boy,” he said. “I see no reason to raise false hopes. There is a strong feeling against Craig, and no little suspicion, owing to the report that he has been speculating heavily, but he has thrown himself on the protection of his church, and even some of his fellow-members, who lose considerably, are standing by him.”

Here old Bishop, with compressed lips, turned and walked unsteadily into the house. With head hanging low and eyes flashing strangely, his wife followed him. At the steps she paused, her sense of hospitality transcending her despair. “You must stay to early supper, anyway, Mr. Miller,” she said. “You could ride back in the cool o' the evening.”

“Thank you, but I must hurry right back, Mrs. Bishop,” Miller said.

“And Dolly--does she know?” asked Alan, when his mother had disappeared and Abner had walked to the hitching-post, and stood as if thoughtfully inspecting Miller's mare. Miller told him of their conversation that morning, and Alan' s face grew tender and more resigned.

“She's a brick!” said Miller. “She's a woman I now believe in thoroughly--she and one other.”

“Then there _is_ another?” asked Alan, almost cheerfully, as an effect of the good news that had accompanied the bad.

“Yes. I see things somewhat differently of late,” admitted Miller, in an evasive, non-committal tone. “Dolly Barclay opened my eyes, and when they were open I saw--well, the good qualities of some one else. I may tell you about her some day, but I shall not now. Get your horse and come to town with me. We must be ready for any emergency.”

Abner Daniel came towards them. “I don't want to harm nobody's character,” he said; “but whar my own kin is concerned, I'm up an' wide awake. I don't know what you think, but I hain't got a speck o' faith in Craig hisse'f. He done me a low, sneakin' trick once that I ketched up with. He swore it was a mistake, but it wasn't. He's a bad egg--you mind what I say; he won't do.”

“It may be as you say, Mr. Daniel,” returned Miller, with a lawyer's reserve on a point unsubstantiated by evidence, “but even if he has the money hidden away, how are we to get it from him?”

“I'd find a way,” retorted Daniel, hotly, “so I would.”

“We 'll do all we can,” said Miller.

Daniel strode into the house and Alan went after his horse. Miller stood at the gate, idly tapping his boot with his whip.

“Poor Mrs. Bishop!” he said, his eyes on the house; “how very much she resembled Adele just now, and she is bearing it just like the little girl would. I reckon they 'll write her the bad news. I wish I was there to--soften the blow. It will wring her heart.”

XXIII

HAT evening after supper the family remained, till bedtime, in the big, bare-looking dining-room, the clean, polished floors of which gleamed in the light of a little fire in the big chimney. Bishop's chair was tilted back against the wall in a dark corner, and Mrs. Bishop sat knitting mechanically. Abner was reading--or trying to read--a weekly paper at the end of the dining-table, aided by a dimly burning glass-lamp. Aunt Maria had removed the dishes and, with no little splash and clatter, was washing them in the adjoining kitchen.

Suddenly Abner laid down his paper and began to try to console them for their loss. Mrs. Bishop listened patiently, but Bishop sat in the very coma of despair, unconscious of what was going on around him.

“Alf,” Abner called out, sharply, “don't you remember what a close-fisted scamp I used to be about the time you an' Betsy fust hitched together?”

“No, I don't,” said the man addressed, almost with a growl at being roused from what could not have been pleasant reflections.

“I remember folks said you was the stingiest one in our family,” struck in Mrs. Bishop, plaintively. “Law me! I hain't thought of it from that day to this. It seems powerful funny now to think of you havin' sech a reputation, but I railly believe you had it once.”

“An' I deserved it,” Abner folded his paper, and rapped with it on the table. “You know, Betsy, our old daddy was as close as they make 'em; he had a rope tied to every copper he had, an' I growed up thinkin' it was the only safe course in life. I was too stingy to buy ginger-cake an' cider at camp-meetin' when I was dyin' fer it. I've walked round an' round a old nigger woman's stand twenty times with a dry throat an' my fingers on a slick dime, an' finally made tracks fer the nighest spring. I had my eyes opened to stinginess bein' ungodly by noticin' its effect on pa. He was a natural human bein' till a body tetched his pocket, an' then he was a rantin' devil. I got to thinkin' I'd be like 'im by inheritance ef I didn't call a halt, an' I begun tryin' in various ways to reform. I remember I lent money a little freer than I had, which wasn't sayin' much, fer thar was a time when I wouldn't 'a' sold a man a postage-stamp on a credit ef he'd 'a' left it stuck to the back o' my neck fer security.

“But I 'll tell you how I made my fust great big slide towards reformation. It tuck my breath away, an' lots o' my money; but I did it with my eyes open. I was jest a-thinkin' a minute ago that maybe ef I told you-uns about how little it hurt me to give it up you mought sleep better to-night over yore own shortage. Alf, are you listenin'?”

“Yes, I heerd what you said,” mumbled Bishop.

Abner cleared his throat, struck at a moth with his paper, and continued: “Betsy, you remember our cousin, Jimmy Bartow? You never knowed 'im well, beca'se you an' Alf was livin' on Holly Creek about that time, an' he was down in our neighborhood. He never was wuth shucks, but he twisted his mustache an' greased his hair an' got 'im a wife as easy as fallin' off a log. He got to clerkin' fer old Joe Mason in his store at the cross-roads, and the sight o' so much change passin' through his fingers sort o' turned his brain. He tuck to drinking an' tryin' to dress his wife fine, an' one thing or other, that made folks talk. He was our double fust cousin, you know, an' we tuck a big interest in 'im on that account. After a while old Joe begun to miss little dribs o' cash now an' then, an' begun to keep tab on Jimmy, an' 'fore the young scamp knowed it, he was ketched up with as plain as day.

“Old Joe made a calculation that Jimmy had done 'im, fust and last, to the tune of about five hundred dollars, an' told Jimmy to set down by the stove an' wait fer the sheriff.

“Jimmy knowed he could depend on the family pride, an' he sent fer all the kin fer miles around. It raised a awful rumpus, fer not one o' our stock an' generation had ever been jailed, an' the last one of us didn't want it to happen. I reckon we was afeerd ef it once broke out amongst us it mought become a epidemic. They galloped in on the'r hosses an' mules, an' huddled around Mason. They closed his doors, back an' front, an' patted 'im on the back, an' talked about the'r trade an' influence, an' begged 'im not to prefer charges; but old Joe stood as solid as a rock. He said a thief was a thief, ef you spelt it back'ards or for'ards, or ef he was akin to a king or a corn-fiel' nigger. He said it was, generally, the bigger the station the bigger the thief. Old Joe jest set at his stove an' chawed tobacco an' spit. Now an' then he'd stick his hands down in his pockets an' rip out a oath. Then Jimmy's young wife come with her little teensy baby, an' set down by Jimmy, skeerd mighty nigh out of 'er life. Looked like the baby was skeerd too, fer it never cried ur moved. Then the sheriff driv' up in his buggy an' come in clinkin' a pair o' handcuffs. He seed what they was all up to an' stood back to see who would win, Jimmy's kin or old Joe. All at once I tuck notice o' something that made me madder'n a wet hen. They all knowed I had money laid up, an' they begun to ax old Mason ef I'd put up the five hundred dollars would he call it off. I was actu'ly so mad I couldn't speak. Old Joe said he reckoned, seein' that they was all so turribly set back, that he'd do it ef I was willin'. The Old Nick got in me then as big as a side of a house, an' I give the layout about the toughest talk they ever had. It didn't faze 'em much, fer all they wanted was to git Jimmy free, an' so they tuck another tack. Ef they'd git up half amongst 'em all, would I throw in t'other half? That, ef anything, made me madder. I axed 'em what they tuck me fer--did I look like a durn fool? An' did they think beca'se they was sech fools I was one?

“Old Tommy Todd, Jimmy's own uncle, was thar, but he never had a word to say. He jest set an' smoked his pipe an' looked about, but he wouldn't open his mouth when they'd ax him a question. He was knowed to be sech a skinflint that nobody seemed to count on his help at all, an' he looked like he was duly thankful fer his reputation to hide behind in sech a pressure.

“Then they lit into me, an' showed me up in a light I'd never appeared in before. They said I was the only man thar without a family to support, an' the only one thar with ready cash in the bank, an' that ef I'd let my own double fust cousin be jailed, I was a disgrace to 'em all. They'd not nod to me in the big road, an' ud use the'r influence agin my stayin' in the church an' eventually gittin' into the kingdom o' Heaven. I turned from man to devil right thar. I got up on the head of a tater-barrel behind the counter, an' made the blamedest speech that ever rolled from a mouth inspired by iniquity. I picked 'em out one by one an' tore off their shirts, an' chawed the buttons. The only one I let escape was old Tommy; he never give me a chance to hit him. Then I finally come down to the prisoner at the bar an' I larruped him. Ever' time I'd give a yell, Jimmy ud duck his head, an' his wife ud huddle closer over the baby like she was afeerd splinters ud git in its eyes. I made fun of 'em till I jest had to quit. Then they turned the'r backs on me an' begun to figure on doin' without my aid. It was mortgage this, an' borrow this, an' sell this hoss or wagon or mule or cow, an' a turrible wrangle. I seed they was gittin' down to business an' left 'em.

“I noticed old Tommy make his escape, an' go out an' unhitch his hoss, but he didn't mount. Looked like he 'lowed he was at least entitled to carryin' the news home, whether he he'ped or not. I went to the spring at the foot o' the rise an' set down. I didn't feel right. In fact, I felt meaner than I ever had in all my life, an' couldn't 'a' told why. Somehow I felt all at once ef they did git Jimmy out o' hock an' presented 'im to his wife an' baby without me a-chippin' in, I'd never be able to look at 'em without remorse, an' I did think a lots o' Jimmy's wife an' baby. I set thar watchin' the store about as sorry as a proud sperit kin feel after a big rage. Fust I'd hope they'd git up the required amount, an' then I'd almost hope they wouldn't. Once I actually riz to go offer my share, but the feer that it ud be refused stopped me. On the whole, I think I was in the mud about as deep as Jimmy was in the mire, an' I hadn't tuck nobody's money nuther. All at once I begun to try to see some way out o' my predicament. They wouldn't let me chip in, but I wondered ef they'd let me pay it all. I believed they would, an' I was about to hurry in the store when I was balked by the thought that folks would say I was a born idiot to be payin' my lazy, triflin' kinfolks out o' the consequences o' the'r devilment; so I set down agin, an' had another wrastle. I seed old Tommy standin' by his hoss chawin' his ridin'-switch an' watchin' the door. All at once he looked mighty contemptible, an' it struck me that I wasn't actin' one bit better, so I ris an' plunged fer the door. Old Tommy ketched my arm as I was about to pass 'im an' said, 'What you goin' to do, Ab?' An' I said, 'Uncle Tommy, I'm a-goin' to pay that boy out ef they 'll let me.'

“'You don't say,' the old fellow grunted, lookin' mighty funny, an' he slid in the store after me. Somehow I wasn't afeerd o' nothin' with or without shape. I felt like I was walkin' on air in the brightest, saftest sunshine I ever felt. They was all huddled over Mason's desk still a-figurin' an' a-complainin' at the uneven division. Jimmy set thar with his head ducked an' his young wife was tryin' to fix some'n' about the baby. She looked like she'd been cryin.'I got up on my tater-barrel an' knocked on the wall with a axe-handle to attract the'r attention. Then I begun. I don't know what I said, or how it sounded, but I seed Jimmy raise his head an' look, an' his wife push back her poke-bonnet an' stare like I'd been raised from the grave. Along with my request to be allowed to foot the whole bill, I said I wanted to do it beca'se I believed I could show Jimmy an' his wife that I was doin' it out o' genuine regard fer 'em both, an' that I wanted 'em to take a hopeful new start an' not be depressed. Well, sir, it was like an avalanche. I never in all my life seed sech a knocked-out gang. Nobody wanted to talk. The sheriff looked like he was afeerd his handcuffs ud jingle, an' Jimmy bu'st out cryin'. His wife sobbed till you could 'a' heerd her to the spring. She sprung up an' fetched me her baby an' begged me to kiss it. With her big glad eyes, an' the tears in 'em, she looked nigher an angel than any human bein' I ever looked at. Jimmy went out the back way wipin' his eyes, an' I went to Mason's desk to write him a check fer the money. He come to my elbow an' looked troubled.

“'I said it was five hundred dollars,' said he, 'but I was sorter averagin' the loss. I ain't a-goin' to run no risks in a matter like this. I'd feel better to call it four hundred. You see, Jimmy's been a sort o' standby with me, an' has fetched me lots o' trade. Make it four hundred and I 'll keep 'im. I don't believe he 'll ever git wrong agin.'

“And Jimmy never did. He stayed thar for five yeer on a stretch, an' was the best clerk in the county. I was paid a thousandfold. I never met them two in my life that they didn't look jest like they thought I was all right, an' that made me feel like I was to some extent. Old Tommy, though, was the funniest thing about it. He bored me mighty nigh to death. He'd come to my cabin whar I was livin' at the time an' set by my fire an' smoke an' never say hardly a word. It looked like some 'n' was on his mind, an' he couldn't git it off. One night when he'd stayed longer 'n usual, I pinned 'im down an' axed 'im what was the matter. He got up quick an' said nothin' aileded 'im, but he stopped at the fence an' called me out. He was as white as a sheet an' quiverin' all over. Said he: 'I've got to have this over with, Ab. I may as well tell you an' be done with it. It's been botherin' the life out o' me, an' I 'll never git rid of it till it's done. I want to pay you half o' that money you spent on Jimmy. I had the cash that day, an' it 'ain't done me one bit o' good sence then. I 'll never sleep well till I go you halvers.'

“'I cayn't sell that to you, Uncle Tommy,' I said, laughin'. 'No, siree, you couldn't chip into that investment ef you doubled yore offer. I've found out what it is wuth. But,' said I, 'ef you've got two hundred that's burnin' a hole in yore pocket, ur conscience, an' want to yank it out, go give it to Jimmy's wife to he'p her educate that baby.'

“It struck 'im betwixt the eyes, but he didn't say yes or no. He slid away in the moonlight, all bent over an' quiet. I never seed 'im agin fer a month, an' then I called 'im out of a crowd o' fellers at the court-house an' axed 'im what he'd done. He looked bothered a little, but he gave me a straight look like he wasn't ready to sneak out o' anything.

“'I thought it over,' said he, 'but I railly don't see no reason why I ort to help Jimmy's child any more 'n a whole passle o' others that have as much claim on me by blood; but somehow I do feel like goin' cahoot with you in what's already been done, an' I'm still ready to jine you, ef you are willin'.'

“I didn't take his money, but it set me to thinkin'. When old Tommy died, ten years after that, they found he had six wool socks filled with gold an' silver coin under his house, an' nobody ever heerd o' his doin' any charity work. I wish now that I'd 'a' lifted that cash an' 'a' put it whar it would do good. If I had he'd 'a' had a taste o' some 'n' that never glorified his pallet.”

When Abner concluded, Mrs. Bishop went to the fire and pushed the chunks together into a heap in the fireplace. Bishop moved in his chair, but he said nothing.

“I remember heerin' about that, brother Ab,” Mrs. Bishop said, a reminiscent intonation in her voice. “Some folks wondered powerful over it. I don't believe money does a body much good jest to hold an' keep. As the Lord is my judge, I jest wanted that bank deposit fer Alan and Adele. I wanted it, an' I wanted it bad, but I cayn't believe it was a sin.”

Something like a groan escaped Bishop's lips as he lowered the front posts of his chair to the floor.

“What's the use o' talkin' about it?” he said, impatiently. “What's the use o' anything?”

He rose and moved towards the door leading to his room.

“Alfred,” Mrs. Bishop called to him, “are you goin' to bed without holdin' prayer?”

“I'm goin' to omit it to-night,” he said. “I don't feel well, one bit. Besides, I reckon each pusson kin pray in private according to the way they feel.”

Abner stood up, and removing the lamp-chimney he lighted a candle by the flame.

“I tried to put a moral lesson in what I said just now,” he smiled, mechanically, “but I missed fire. Alf's sufferin' is jest unselfishness puore an' undefiled; he wants to set his children up in the world. This green globe is a sight better 'n some folks thinks it is. You kin find a little speck o' goody in mighty nigh ever' chestnut.”

“That's so, brother Ab,” said his sister; “but we are ruined now--ruined, ruined!”

“Ef you will look at it that way,” admitted Abner, reaching for his candle; “but thar's a place ahead whar thar never was a bank, or a dollar, or a railroad, an' it ain't fur ahead, nuther. Some folks say it begins heer in this life.”

XXIV

[Ill 9000]

S Abner Daniel leaned over the rail-fence in front of Pole Baker's log-cabin one balmy day, two weeks later, he saw evidences of the ex-moonshiner's thriftlessness combined with an inordinate love for his children. A little express-wagon, painted red, such as city children receive from their well-to-do parents on Christmas, was going to ruin under a cherry-tree which had been bent to the ground by a rope-swing fastened to one of its flexible boughs. The body of a mechanical speaking-doll lay near by, and the remains of a toy air-rifle. After a protracted spree Pole usually came home laden down with such peace-offerings to his family and conscience. His wife might go without a needed gown, and he a coat, but his children never without toys. Seeing Abner at the fence, Mrs. Baker came to the low door and stood bending her head to look out.

“I heerd at home,” said Abner, “that Pole was over thar axin' fer me. I've been away to my peach-orchard on the hill.”

“Yes, he's been over thar twice,” said the woman. “He's back of the house some'r's settin' a trap fer the children to ketch some birds in. I 'll blow the horn. When I blow twice he knows he's wanted right off.”

She took down a cow's-horn from a nail on the wall, and going to the door on the opposite side of the house she gave two long, ringing blasts, which set half a dozen dogs near by and some far off to barking mellowly. In a few minutes Pole appeared around the corner of the cabin.

“Hello, Uncle Ab,” he said. “Won't you come in?”

“No, hain't time,” smiled the old man. “I jest come over to see how much money you wanted to borrow.”

“I don't want any o' yo'rn,” said Pole, leaning over the fence, his unbuttoned shirt-sleeves allowing his brawny, bare arms to rest on the top rail. “I wanted to talk to you about Alan an' that bank bu'st-up.”

“You've been to town, I heer,” said Abner, deeply interested.