Part 23

“What’s that?” queried the lawyer incisively, attempting by his tone to overawe him or bring him to his senses, “not sign? What do you mean by saying you won’t sign? You gave an option here for the sum of $100 cash in hand, signed by you and your wife and witnessed by Lester Botts, and now you say you won’t sign! I don’t want to be harsh, but there’s a definite contract entered into here and money passed, and such things can’t be handled in any such light way, Mr. Queeder. This is a contract, a very serious matter before the law, Mr. Queeder, a very serious matter. The law provides a very definite remedy in a case of this kind. Whether you want to sign or not, with this option we have here and what it calls for we can pay over the money before witnesses and enter suit for possession and win it.”

“Not when a feller’s never knowed whut he wuz doin’ when he signed,” insisted Dode, who by now, because of his self-interest and the appearance of his father having been misled, was coming round to a more sympathetic or at least friendly attitude.

“I’ll not sign nuthin’,” insisted Queeder grimly. “I hain’t a-goin’ tuh be swindled out o’ my prupetty. I never knowed they wuz min’l onto hit, like they is—leastways not whut it wuz wuth—an’ I won’t sign, an’ yuh ain’t a-goin’ tuh make me. Ye’re a-tryin’ tuh get it away from me fur nuthin’, that’s whut ye’re a-tryin’ tuh do. I won’t sign nuthin’!”

“I had no idee they wuz min’l onto hit when I signed,” whimpered Mrs. Queeder.

“Oh, come, come!” put in Crawford sternly, deciding to deal with this eccentric character and believing that he could overawe him by referring to the secret agreement between them, “don’t forget, Mr. Queeder, that I had a special agreement with you concerning all this.” He was not quite sure now as to what he would have to pay—the two or the eight. “Are you going to keep your bargain with me or not? You want to decide quick now. Which is it?”

“Git out!” shouted Queeder, becoming wildly excited and waving his hands and jumping backward. “Yuh swindled me, that’s whutcha done! Yut thort yuh’d git this place fer nothin’. Well, yuh won’t—yuh kain’t. I won’t sign nuthin’. I won’t sign nuthin’.” His eyes were red and wild from too much brooding.

Now it was that Crawford, who had been hoping to get it all for two thousand, decided to stick to his private agreement to pay eight, only instead of waiting to adjust it with Queeder in private he decided now to use it openly in an attempt to suborn the family to his point of view by showing them how much he really was to have and how unjust Queeder had planned to be to himself and them. In all certainty the family understood it as only two. If he would now let them know how matters stood, perhaps that would make a difference in his favor.

“You call eight thousand for this place swindling, and after you’ve taken eight hundred dollars of my money and kept it for sixty days?”

“Whut’s that?” asked Dode, edging nearer, then turning and glaring at his father and eyeing his mother amazedly. This surpassed in amount and importance anything he had imagined had been secured by them, and of course he assumed that both were lying. “Eight thousan’! I thort yuh said it wuz two!” He looked at his mother for confirmation.

The latter was a picture of genuine surprise. “That’s the fust I hearn uv any eight thousan’,” she replied dumbly, her own veracity in regard to the transaction being in question.

The picture that Queeder made under the circumstances was remarkable. Quite upset by this half-unexpected and yet feared revelation, he was now quite beside himself with rage, fear, the insolvability of the amazing tangle into which he had worked himself. The idea that after he had made an agreement with this man, which was really unfair to himself, he should turn on him in this way was all but mentally upsetting. Besides, the fact that his wife and son now knew how greedy and selfish he had been weakened him to the point of terror.

“Well, that’s what I offered him, just the same,” went on Crawford aggressively and noting the extreme effect, “and that’s what he agreed to take, and that’s what I’m here to pay. I paid him $800 in cash to bind the bargain, and he has the money now somewhere. His saying now that I tried to swindle him is too funny! He asked me not to say anything about it because the land was all his and he wanted to adjust things with you three in his own way.”

“Git outen hyur!” shouted Queeder savagely, going all but mad, “before I kill yuh! I hain’t signed nuthin’! We never said nuthin’ about no $8,000. It wuz $2,000—that’s what it wuz! Ye’re trin’ tuh swindle me, the hull varmint passel o’ yuh! I won’t sign nuthin’!” and he stooped and attempted to seize a stool that stood near the wall.

At this all retreated except Dode, who, having mastered his father in more than one preceding contest, now descended on him and with one push of his arm knocked him down, so weak was he, while the lawyer and prospector, seeing him prone, attempted to interfere in his behalf. What Dode was really thinking was that now was his chance. His father had lied to him. He was naturally afraid of him. Why not force him by sheer brute strength to accept this agreement and take the money? Once it was paid here before him, if he could make his father sign, he could take his share without let or hindrance. Of what dreams might not this be the fulfilment? “He agreed on’t, an’ now he’s gotta do it,” he thought; “that’s all.”

“No fighting, now,” called Giles. “We don’t want any fighting—just to settle this thing pleasantly, that’s all.”

After all, Queeder’s second signature or _mark_ would be required, peaceably if possible, and besides they wished no physical violence. They were men of business, not of war.

“Yuh say he agreed tuh take $8,000, did he?” queried Dode, the actuality of so huge a sum ready to be paid in cash seeming to him almost unbelievable.

“Yes, that’s right,” replied the prospector.

“Then, by heck, he’s gotta make good on whut he said!” said Dode with a roll of his round head, his arms akimbo, heavily anxious to see the money paid over. “Here you,” he now turned to his father and began—for his prostrate father, having fallen and injured his head, was still lying semi-propped on his elbows, surveying the group with almost non-comprehending eyes, too confused and lunatic to quite realize what was going on or to offer any real resistance. “Whut’s a-gittin’ into yuh, anyhow, Ol’ Spindle Shanks? Git up hyur!” Dode went over and lifted his father to his feet and pushed him toward a chair at the table. “Yuh might ez well sign fer this, now ’at yuh’ve begun it. Whar’s the paper?” he asked of the lawyer. “Yuh just show him whar he orter sign, an’ I guess he’ll do it. But let’s see this hyur money that ye’re a-goin’ tuh pay over fust,” he added, “afore he signs. I wanta see ef it’s orl right.”

The prospector extracted the actual cash from a wallet, having previously calculated that a check would never be accepted, and the lawyer presented the deed to be signed. At the same time Dode took the money and began to count it.

“All he has to do,” observed Giles to the others as he did so, “is to sign this second paper, he and his wife. If you can read,” he said to Dode when the latter had concluded, and seeing how satisfactorily things were going, “you can see for yourself what it is.” Dode now turned and picked it up and looked at it as though it were as simple and clear as daylight. “As you can see,” went on the lawyer, “we agreed to buy this land of him for eight thousand dollars. We have already paid him eight hundred. That leaves seven thousand two hundred still to pay, which you have there,” and he touched the money in Dode’s hands. The latter was so moved by the reality of the cash that he could scarcely speak for joy. Think of it—seven thousand two hundred dollars—and all for this wretched bony land!

“Well, did yuh ever!” exclaimed Mrs. Queeder and Jane in chorus. “Who’d ’a’ thort! Eight thousan’!”

Old Queeder, still stunned and befogged mentally, was yet recovering himself sufficiently to rise from the chair and look strangely about, now that Dode was attempting to make him sign, but his loving son uncompromisingly pushed him back again.

“Never mind, Ol’ Spindle Shanks,” he repeated roughly. “Just yuh stay whar yuh air an’ sign as he asts yuh tuh. Yuh agreed tuh this, an’ yuh might ez well stick tuh it. Ye’re gittin’ so yuh don’t know what yuh want no more,” he jested, now that he realized that for some strange reason he had his father completely under his sway. The latter was quite helplessly dumb. “Yuh agreed tuh this, he says. Did ja? Air yuh clean gone?”

“Lawsy!” put in the excited Mrs. Queeder. “Eight thousan’! An’ him a-walkin’ roun’ hyur all the time sayin’ hit wuz only two an’ never sayin’ nuthin’ else tuh nobody! Who’d ’a’ thort hit! An’ him a-goin’ tuh git hit all ef he could an’ say nuthin’!”

“Yes,” added Jane, gazing at her father greedily and vindictively, “tryin’ tuh git it all fer hisself! An’ us a-workin’ hyur year in an’ year out on this hyur ol’ place tuh keep him comfortable!” She was no less hard in her glances than her brother. Her father seemed little less than a thief, attempting to rob them of the hard-earned fruit of their toil.

As the lawyer took the paper from Dode and spread it upon the old board table and handed Queeder a pen the latter took it aimlessly, quite as a child might have, and made his mark where indicated, Mr. Giles observing very cautiously, “This is of your own free will and deed, is it, Mr. Queeder?” The old man made no reply. For the time being anyhow, possibly due to the blow on his head as he fell, he had lost the main current of his idea, which was not to sign. After signing he looked vaguely around, as though uncertain as to what else might be requested of him, while Mrs. Queeder made her mark, answering “yes” to the same shrewd question. Then Dode, as the senior intelligence of this institution and the one who by right of force now dominated, having witnessed the marks of his father and mother, as did Jane, two signatures being necessary, he took the money and before the straining eyes of his relatives proceeded to recount it. Meanwhile old Queeder, still asleep to the significance of the money, sat quite still, but clawed at it as though it were something which he ought to want, but was not quite sure of it.

“You find it all right, I suppose?” asked the lawyer, who was turning to go. Dode acknowledged that it was quite correct.

Then the two visitors, possessed of the desired deed, departed. The family, barring the father, who sat there still in a daze, began to discuss how the remarkable sum was to be divided.

“Now, I just wanta tell yuh one thing, Dode,” urged the mother, all avarice and anxiety for herself, “a third o’ that, whutever ’tis, b’longs tuh me, accordin’ tuh law!”

“An’ I sartinly oughta git a part o’ that thar, workin’ the way I have,” insisted Jane, standing closely over Dode.

“Well, just keep yer hands off till I git through, cantcha?” asked Dode, beginning for the third time to count it. The mere feel of it was so entrancing! What doors would it not open? He could get married now, go to the city, do a hundred things he had always wanted to do. The fact that his father was entitled to anything or that, having lost his wits, he was now completely helpless, a pathetic figure and very likely from now on doomed to wander about alone or to do his will, moved him not in the least. By right of strength and malehood he was now practically master here, or so he felt himself to be. As he fingered the money he glowed and talked, thinking wondrous things, then suddenly remembering the concealed eight hundred, or his father’s part of it, he added, “Yes, an’ whar’s that other eight hundred, I’d like tuh know? He’s a-carryin’ it aroun’ with him er hidin’ it hyurabout mebbe!” Then eyeing the crumpled victim suspiciously, he began to feel in the old man’s clothes, but, not finding anything, desisted, saying they might get it later. The money in his hands was finally divided: a third to Mrs. Queeder, a fourth to Jane, the balance to himself as the faithful heir and helper of his father, the while he speculated as to the whereabouts of the remaining eight hundred.

Just then Queeder, who up to this time had been completely bereft of his senses, now recovered sufficiently to guess nearly all of what had so recently transpired. With a bound he was on his feet, and, looking wildly about him, exclaiming as he did so in a thin, reedy voice, “They’ve stole my prupetty! They’ve stole my prupetty! I’ve been robbed, I have! I’ve been robbed! Eh! Eh! Eh! This hyur land ain’t wuth only eight thousan’—hit’s wuth twenty-five thousan’, an’ that’s whut I could ’a’ had for it, an’ they’ve gone an’ made me sign it all away! Eh! Eh! Eh!” He jigged and moaned, dancing helplessly about until, seeing Dode with his share of the money still held safely in his hand, his maniacal chagrin took a new form, and, seizing it and running to the open door, he began to throw a portion of the precious bills to the winds, crying as he did so, “They’ve stole my prupetty! They’ve stole my prupetty! I don’t want the consarned money—I don’t want it! I want my prupetty! Eh! Eh! Eh!”

In this astonishing situation Dode saw but one factor—the money. Knowing nothing of the second prospector’s offer, he could not realize what it was that so infuriated the old man and had finally completely upset his mind. As the latter jigged and screamed and threw the money about he fell upon him with the energy of a wildcat and, having toppled him over and wrested the remainder of the cash from him, he held him safely down, the while he called to his sister and mother, “Pick up the money, cantcha? Pick up the money an’ git a rope, cantcha? Git a rope! Cantcha see he’s done gone plum daffy? He’s outen his head, I tell yuh. He’s crazy, he is, shore! Git a rope!” and eyeing the money now being assembled by his helpful relatives, he pressed the struggling maniac’s body to the floor. When the latter was safely tied and the money returned, the affectionate son arose and, having once more recounted his share in order to see that it was all there, he was content to look about him somewhat more kindly on an all too treacherous world. Then, seeing the old man where he was trussed like a fowl for market, he added, somewhat sympathetically, it may be:

“Well, who’d ’a’ thort! Pore ol’ Pap! I do b’lieve he’s outen his mind for shore this time! He’s clean gone—plum daffy.”

“Yes, that’s whut he is, I do b’lieve,” added Mrs. Queeder with a modicum of wifely interest, yet more concerned at that with her part of the money than anything else.

Then Dode, his mother and sister began most unconcernedly to speculate as to what if anything was next to be done with the old farmer, the while the latter rolled a vacant eye over a scene he was no longer able to interpret.

X

MARRIAGE—FOR ONE

Whenever I think of love and marriage I think of Wray. That clerkly figure. That clerkly mind. He was among the first people I met when I came to New York and, like so many of the millions seeking to make their way, he was busy about his affairs. Fortunately, as I saw it, with the limitations of the average man he had the ambitions of the average man. At that time he was connected with one of those large commercial agencies which inquire into the standing of business men, small and large, and report their findings, for a price, to other business men. He was very much interested in his work and seemed satisfied that should he persist in it he was certain to achieve what was perhaps a fair enough ambition: a managership in some branch of this great concern, which same would pay him so much as five or six thousand a year. The thing about him that interested me, apart from a genial and pleasing disposition, was the fact that with all his wealth of opportunity before him for studying the human mind, its resources and resourcefulness, its inhibitions and liberations, its humor, tragedy, and general shiftiness and changefulness, still he was largely concerned with the bare facts of the differing enterprises whose character he was supposed to investigate. Were they solvent? Could and did they pay their bills? What was their capital stock? How much cash did they have on hand?... Such was the nature of the data he needed, and to this he largely confined himself.

Nevertheless, by turns he was amused or astonished or made angry or self-righteous by the tricks, the secretiveness, the errors and the downright meanness of spirit of so many he had to deal with. As for himself, he had the feeling that he was honest, straightforward, not as limited or worthless as some of these others, and it was on this score that he was convinced he would succeed, as he did eventually, within his limitations, of course. What interested me and now makes me look upon him always as an excellent illustration of the futility of the dream of exact or even suitable rewards was his clerkly and highly respectable faith in the same. If a man did as he should do, if he were industrious and honest and saving and courteous and a few more of those many things we all know we ought to be, then in that orderly nature of things which he assumed to hold one must get along better than some others. What—an honest, industrious, careful man not do better than one who was none of these things—a person who flagrantly disregarded them, say? What nonsense. It must be so. Of course there were accidents and sickness, and men stole from one another, as he saw illustrated in his daily round. And banks failed, and there were trusts and combinations being formed that did not seem to be entirely in tune with the interests of the average man. But even so, all things considered, the average man, if he did as above, was likely to fare much better than the one who did not. In short, there was such a thing as approximate justice. Good did prevail, in the main, and the wicked were punished, as they should be.

And in the matter of love and marriage he held definite views also. Not that he was unduly narrow or was inclined to censure those whose lives had not worked out as well as he hoped his own would, but he thought there was a fine line of tact somewhere in this matter of marriage which led to success there quite as the qualities outlined above led, or should lead, to success in matters more material or practical. One had to understand something about women. One had to be sure that when one went a-courting one selected a woman of sense as well as of charm, one who came of good stock and hence would be possessed of good taste and good principles. She need not be rich; she might even be poor. And one had to be reasonably sure that one loved her. So many that went a-courting imagined they loved and were loved when it was nothing more than a silly passing passion. Wray knew. And so many women were designing, or at least light and flighty; they could not help a serious man to succeed if they would. However, in many out-of-the-way corners of the world were the really sensible and worthy girls, whom it was an honor to marry, and it was one of these that he was going to choose. Yet even there it was necessary to exercise care: one might marry a girl who was too narrow and conventional, one who would not understand the world and hence be full of prejudices. He was for the intelligent and practical and liberal girl, if he could find her, one who was his mental equal.

It was when he had become secretary to a certain somebody that he encountered in his office a girl who seemed to him to embody nearly all of the virtues or qualities which he thought necessary. She was the daughter of very modestly circumstanced parents who dwelt in the nearby suburb of O——, and a very capable and faithful stenographer, of course. If you had seen the small and respectable suburb from which she emanated you would understand. She was really pretty and appeared to be practical and sensible in many ways, but still very much in leash to the instructions and orders and tenets of her home and her church and her family circle, three worlds as fixed and definite and worthy and respectable in her thought as even the most enthusiastic of those who seek to maintain the order and virtue of the world would have wished. According to him, as he soon informed me—since we exchanged nearly all our affairs whenever we met, she was opposed to the theatre, dancing, any form of night dining or visiting in the city on weekdays, as well as anything that in her religious and home world might be construed as desecration of the Sabbath. I recall him describing her as narrow “as yet,” but he hoped to make her more liberal in the course of time. He also told me with some amusement and the air of a man of the world that it was impossible for him to win her to so simple an outing as rowing on the Sabbath on the little river near her home because it was wrong; on the contrary, he had to go to church with her and her parents. Although he belonged to no church and was mildly interested in socialism, he kept these facts from her knowledge. The theatre could not even be mentioned as a form of amusement and she could not and would not dance; she looked upon his inclination for the same as not only worldly but loose and sinful. However, as he told me, he was very fond of her and was doing his best to influence and enlighten her. She was too fine and intelligent a girl to stick to such notions. She would come out of them.

By very slow degrees (he was about his business of courting her all of two or three years) he succeeded in bringing her to the place where she did not object to staying downtown to dinner with him on a weekday, even went with him to a sacred or musical concert of a Sunday night, but all unbeknown to her parents or neighbors, of course. But what he considered his greatest triumph was when he succeeded in interesting her in books, especially bits of history and philosophy that he thought very liberal and which no doubt generated some thin wisps of doubt in her own mind. Also, because he was intensely fond of the theatre and had always looked upon it as the chiefest of the sources of his harmless entertainment, he eventually induced her to attend one performance, and then another and another. In short, he emancipated her in so far as he could, and seemed to be delighted with the result.

With their marriage came a new form of life for both of them, but more especially for her. They took a small apartment in New York, a city upon which originally she had looked with no little suspicion, and they began to pick up various friends. It was not long before she had joined a literary club which was being formed in their vicinity, and here she met a certain type of restless, pushing, seeking woman for whom Wray did not care—a Mrs. Drake and a Mrs. Munshaw, among others, who, from the first, as he afterward told me, he knew could be of no possible value to any one. But Bessie liked them and was about with them here, there, and everywhere.