CHAPTER III.

JOBE SLEEPS IN THE SPARE BED. THE DREAM.

THAT nite arter I had got into bed and kivered up my head, I went to sleep and waked not until broad daylite. Imagine my surprise, when I waked, to find that durin all that long nite I had been the sole okepant of that bed. The piller on which Jobe, my dear husband, had slept for over thirty-four years had not been teched that nite, and, for the fust time in thirty-five years next corn-huskin, Betsy Gaskins had slept alone. I felt skeert. I felt as though some awful calamity had or would occur to me.

With a heavy heart I ariz and put on my skirts, all the time feelin as if I was about to choke. Everything was silent and still about the house. Could it be possible that my dear Jobe had dide or been kidnapped, or what? I hurried into the room—no Jobe there. I went into the kitchen—no Jobe there. I hastened to the spare bed-room. The door was closed. I stopped. I rubbed my hands together, studyin what to do, all a trimblin. Certainly the dead and lifeless corpse of my dear husband was in there cold in death, drivin to it of course by the cruel words of his lovin wife. There I stood stock still, not knowin what to do. I must have stood there some three or four minits until I came to myself. All at onct I says, says I, out loud: “Betsy Gaskins, what are you about? Haint you allers been looked upon as a woman of good jedgement and feerless in the face of disaster?” At that I marched up to the door and flung it open.

Now what do you suppose I found? Jobe was not there, but that spare bed had been okepied that very nite. Then it was that I realized that the two old parties, as it were, had been divided—divided for one nite on the money question. Yes, Jobe Gaskins and his wife Betsy, a Dimicrat and Republican, had slept beneath the same roof and in seperate beds.

While I stood there, contemplatin what next to do and where Jobe might be, I heered him come onto the back porch. I met him with a smile as he come into the kitchen.

Says I: “Why, Jobe, where have you been?”

“Feedin—feedin, of course,” says he; “where do you suppose Ive been?” lookin at the floor and walkin apast me.

Arter reflection thinks I, “’Tis best to say nothin to him about the split in the two old parties until a future date.” So I jist went about it and prepared the mornin meal, thinkin all the time of a dream I had that nite, some time between bed-time and daylite, while I lay there all alone, while the pardner of my life okepied the spare bed.

Well, while Jobe was partakin of his mornin repast, I saw all the time that he wanted to say something. I never said a word durin the whole meal, neither did Jobe. We jist set and eat—eat in silence.

When Jobe was done he pushed back and tipped his cheer agin the wall. I knode he was a goin to speak. He cleared his throat like, and says, says he:

“Betsy, I dont want you to say any more to me about what you read in the newspapers. I am willin to listen to anything else under the sun, but dont let me hear any more about them Populist ideas. I want to talk sense to you, and you to talk sense to me. Now what I want to know, Betsy, is, how are we to raise the money to pay the interest by the fust of Aprile?”

Says I: “Land a goodness, Jobe, how do I know? Goodness knows I am willin to do all I kin to help you raise it. I had a dream last nite; if that dream was true I might tell you how to raise it.”

I stopped.

“Well,” says he, arter studyin a minit, “what was your dream?”

Lookin at him kind a girlish like, says I:

“Jobe, I wont tell you what it was unless you make me two promises.”

Jobe actually smiled. Says he:

“Go ahead; what are your promises?”

“Well,” says I, smilin, “the fust promis is that you sleep in the same bed I do to-nite.”

At that I laffed out loud. Jobe he did, too. Then says I:

“The second promis is that you will listen without commentin until I tell it all.”

Jobe he studied.

“Do you promis?” says I, girlish like.

“Yes, I promis,” says he; “go ahead.”

“You promis to sleep in the same bed you have for these nigh onto thirty-five years?”

“Yes, yes,” says he, lookin half guilty.

“And you will listen?” says I.

“Yes, yes, Ile listen,” says he.

So, arter clearin away the dishes and scrapin off the crumbs for the chickens, and puttin some dish water to bile, I sot down on the other side of the table from Jobe, lookin him square in the face. Says I:

“Well, Jobe, we was talkin of the mortgage and the interest last nite when I went to bed, and I suppose that had something to do with me havin the dream, and for that reason I dont suppose there is anything in the dream.”

“Spose not,” says he, lookin oneasy like.

“Well, Jobe,” says I, “I dreamed that Congressman Richer had demanded his money, and you had to raise the whole amount of the mortgage or lose our home. I thought you and me went down to town and went to every bank to try to borrow the money with which to pay the mortgage. I thought every place we went we was told that they was not makin any loans now, that there was a money panic and they had decided not to make any more loans for some time. I thought we could see great piles of money inside the wire fence that seperated us from the bankers, you know.” At this he nodded. “And I thought you said, jist as plain as I ever heard you say anything:

“‘Why, haint you got plenty of money?’

“‘Yes, yes, we have plenty of money, but we are not loaning any at this time,’[A] says each banker, jist as though they had all agreed to say the same thing.

Footnote A:

In July and August, 1893, during one of the severest money panics ever experienced in the United States, many of the banks not only refused to lend money on choice security or to discount commercial paper, but in many instances would not permit persons to draw out the money they had deposited with them. Business was paralyzed. Thousands of persons were ruined, losing the accumulations of a lifetime by being unable to raise money as usual to meet obligations falling due. Factories were closed for lack of funds to pay employes, and thousands of American citizens were thrown out of employment. The consequent suffering among the poorer classes throughout the nation was indescribable. And during all this time the banks of the country held the money of the people and refused to pay it out even to those to whom it belonged. Hence the question: Can not a better system of financiering be devised than our present banking system? Would it not be better to permit the people to deposit their money with our county treasurers?

“So I thought we traveled and traveled and coaxed and coaxed, and we couldent git a cent, as it were.

“Finally I thought we was agoin along the street, both feelin sad and discouraged, when jist in front of Spring Bros. & Holsworth’s big dry goods store who should we meet but Bill Bowers of Sandyville.

“‘Hello, Gaskins,’ says he.

“That was the fust we had seen of him. Our minds was so troubled.

“We stopped, and arter inquirin about the folks, and the stock, and the meetin that is goin on at Center Valley school-house, he asked:

“‘What are you doin in town?’

“And I thought you up and told him about havin to pay the mortgage; and of our havin been to every bank; and of our havin been told the same tale by each banker, and then you said, ‘I guess, Bill, we will have to lose our farm.’

“When he up and says, says he:

“‘Why, Gaskins, haint you heerd it?’

“‘Heerd what?’ says you.

“‘Why, haint you heerd of the new law?’ says he. ‘Why, Congress passed the law yisterday. I was jist over to the court-house and they showed me the telegram.’

“‘Why, what law do you mean, Bill?’ says you.

“Then you and Bill sot down on a box and I leaned agin the house, and says Bill:

“‘Why, yisterday, Jobe, they passed a law in Congress authorizing the Secretary of the Treasury to, at once, have engraved and printed full legal-tender paper money to the amount of ten dollars per capita of the population of the United States, and that money is to be set apart only to be loaned to counties on county bonds, and the counties are to git it at one per cent. interest. Then the county treasurers are to lend the money only on first mortgage real estate security to the farmers and business men and mechanics, at only two per cent. interest, and when the man that borrows it pays it back, or any part of it, the amount of his payments shall be credited on his mortgage, and as fast as it accumulates in the county treasurer’s office he shall forward it to Washington and git it credited on the county bond they hold. The one per cent. the government gits is to pay for makin the money and keepin the books at Washington. The other one per cent. that the borrowers pay is to go toward payin the county treasurer’s salary and clerk hire. This money, Jobe, is as good as gold, because the government agrees to take it for postage stamps and internal revenue and duties on imports and sich. All you have to do, Jobe, is to go over there to that grand old court-house, give your mortgage to the people of the county, and git your money; and after this you will only have to pay two per cent. interest instead of six or seven, and you kin save your farm.’

“Well, Jobe, I thought you and me and Bill Bowers all went over there, and sure enough, what Bill told us was true. The county treasurer told us that he would put our application on file, and as soon as they could git the money out and here, possibly in thirty days, we could come in and git ninety per cent. of the value of our farm if we needed that much.

“And while we was standin there a talkin to Treasurer Hochstetter, I heard George Welty explainin to Ed. Walters ‘how nice it was for a person to be able to give a mortgage to the people of the county for money to pay for a home, and then the county goin that person’s security and gittin the money from all the people of the United States,’ and explainin that there would always be jist enough money to do bizness on and no more, since the county would only borrow from the government when some citizen of the county had use for the money and was willin to give good security and pay two per cent. for it. And, Jobe, I thought you looked happier than you have for ten years.”

“Well, Bet——”

“Hold on, Jobe,” says I. “Well, I thought you and me and Bill Bowers started up street, and when we were passin Jones’s bank he called us in.

“Says he: ‘Mr. Gaskins, I guess we can accommodate you with that little matter you was speakin about this morn——”

“‘I dont want it now,’ says you.

“‘No,’ says I.

“‘Ide think not,’ says Bill Bowers.

“‘Well, but hold—hold on,’ says Jones. ‘I—I—we—we will let you have that amount at four per cent.’

“‘Oh, no,’ says you.

“‘Well, how will three strike you?’ says Jones.

“‘I dont want it at all,’ says you.

“‘Come on,’ says I, and we went on up street. When we passed the First National Bank, out comes one of the clerks a hollerin, ‘Mr. Gaskins! Mr. Gaskins!’ We stopped. He came a runnin up and says: ‘Come in now and our people will accommodate you,’ takin hold of your arm and startin back with you. I thought I jist took a hold of your other arm and says, says I: ‘Jobe Gaskins, where yer goin? We dont want any bank money in sich a panic as this. So come on and lets git out of this panic.’

“Well, every last bank we had been to that mornin was a peckin, and a hollerin, and a beckenin to us that evenin, until we like to a never got out of town and away from them. They jist seemed bound to lend you that money whether you wanted it or not. Something had created a panic among them—a panic to git to lend you money. Maybe they had heard of the new law. I dont know.”

Durin most of the tellin of my dream Jobe he was leanin his face in his hands, his elbows on the table, eyes wide open, listenin as he never did before.

When I finished, says he:

“Betsy, that will save us. What a grand country this is!” And he got up and walked across the floor. Comin back and lookin, anxious like, at me, says he: “Betsy, which party did Bill say passed that law—the Dimicrats or the Republicans? It is grand! grand! It will save us.” As he spoke he looked full of joy and happiness. Answerin, says I:

“I think I heard John Denison say it was the Popul——”

I never got to finish that word. His fist came down on the table like a thousand of bricks. He jumped back into the middle of the floor, cracked his fists together, stamped his foot, and says in a loud voice: “I wont! I wont! I wont do it. It can go fust. Bill Bowers is a dum fool. I wont! I wont!”

Says I: “Why, Jobe, what on airth is the matter? What ails you? What yer talkin about anyhow? You wont do what?”

Answerin, says he, bringin his fists together agin:

“I wont borrow any money from any scheme them tarnal Populists has made into a law. Ile—Ile pay ten per cent. interest fust. Ile not lend my approval to any law they have made.”

“Why, sakes alive, Jobe,” says I, “they haint made any law. That was jist a dream I had. What ails you, anyhow?”

At that he stepped back a step or two, lookin at me vicious like. Movin his head up and down in short jerks, says he:

“Betsy, you must stop it. Stop it at once. Its got you crazy—so crazy you are dreamin about it. You must stop that readin or Ile have you sent to a lunatic asylum.”

He went out at the door then, but just as he got out, in time for him to hear it, I hollered:

“Its you and your likes that ort to be sent to a lunatic asylum for not seein a thing that you have to turn your back on to keep from seein.”

This ended the second “discussion of the financial situation,” as they say down at Washington. The two old parties—Jobe and me—are still divided; but I have one promis he has yet to fulfill.