CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE SHEEP-KING DICTATES

Miss Bayley opened the door when she heard an imperative rap thereon.

“Oh, good-afternoon, Mrs. Archer and Mr. Archer,” she said graciously. “Come in, won’t you, and Jessica? You are all acquainted with my little friend, Dixie Martin, and so introductions will not be necessary. Won’t you be seated? This is my most comfortable chair, Mrs. Archer, and Jessica, you will find room over on the window-seat by Dixie.”

The wife of the sheep-king sat down, but held herself rigidly erect. “Miss Bayley,” she said, “didn’t you get an invitation to come to our house to supper?”

“Why, yes, Mrs. Archer, but did not Jessica tell you that although I appreciated your thoughtfulness, I could not accept to-day, as I had another engagement?” Miss Bayley was calm, and completely mistress of the situation.

The older woman sneered. “Engagement?” she repeated sarcastically. “How could you have any engagements in these here parts that couldn’t be set aside when I need your services?”

Miss Bayley’s eyebrows lifted, ever so slightly. “I did not understand that you needed me,” she said. “I thought that you wished to contribute to my pleasure by inviting me to supper.”

Mrs. Archer’s manner changed. “Well, so I did in a way, and if you’ll go back with us now,” she said, “I’ll call it all right.” She knew that unless Miss Bayley did help her, she would be unable to read a paper before the Woman’s Club in Genoa on the next day.

For one brief moment Josephine Bayley hesitated. Should she defy this woman and declare her right to independence at least as far as her free time was concerned? A second thought reminded her that this would be unwise, if she wished to remain in the mountain country; and now, more than ever, she did wish to remain, that she might help little Dixie Martin, if for no other reason.

That small girl had risen, and in the pause she said shyly: “Teacher, Miss Bayley, I must be going. Baby Jim is like to be missing me by now.”

“Very well, dear.” The teacher also rose and walked to the door which she opened, and then said, loud enough for the listeners to hear without effort: “Dixie, be ready to-morrow morning at half-past eight. You would better come up here, dear, and then the stage will not need to stop on the cañon road.”

Then, closing the door and turning back into the room, she added pleasantly: “I suppose, Mrs. Archer, that you wish me to prepare a paper for you. If that is true, I will get my hat and coat and accompany you.”

Her manner, in spite of the graciousness of her words and tone, was defiant, and when she returned from her screened bedroom, she found Mr. Archer, his hands behind him, pacing up and down the living-room.

“Look a-here, Miss Bayley,” he blurted out, “my wife and me aren’t at all satisfied with your actions. It’s us chiefly that supports this school and pays your salary.”

The teacher’s eyebrows lifted questioningly. “Indeed?” she said. “I thought this was a public school in the Genoa district.”

Mr. Archer was obliged to confess that, in one way, it was. “But it’s my taxes, mostly, that pays your salary,” he contended.

“When taxes are paid into the county treasury, the money is no longer yours,” Miss Bayley told him. “It belongs to the people to be spent for the best interest of the entire community.”

The young teacher’s manner was quiet, but she spoke as one who knew.

Mrs. Archer, unable to longer remain silent, burst forth with: “You might as well understand, once for all, that Mr. Sethibald Archer is boss of this here school, and what he says goes. Mr. Samuel Clayburn, the banker, he as is head of the board of education over in Genoa, told Mr. Archer that as long as everything went along all right, he’d not interfere with my husband’s management of this here school district.”

The ponderous woman rose, and her expression was one of triumph. Mr. Archer nodded his agreement. “That’s just what the Honorable Clayburn said, and so, if you’re wanting to remain in this here school, you’d better not be setting those no-account Martin children up over our Jessica. Now, are you coming with us, Miss Bayley?”

To their unconcealed amazement, the young teacher mutinied.

“No,” she said quietly, “I am not. I consider my free time my own to do with as I wish, and I do not wish to go anywhere this evening.”

A dull red suffused the face of Mr. Sethibald Archer. “Miss Bayley,” he sputtered, “this here term ends the middle of December. You can pack up your baggage and be ready to leave the day after.”

“Very well, Mr. Archer,” was the astonishing reply, “if you are still in authority when that time arrives, I shall do as you request.”

When the three were again in their buggy and on their way down the valley road, the irate man exclaimed: “Such impudence! If I’m in authority by the middle of December, she’ll leave. Huh, she’ll leave all right! Who else in these here parts has brains enough to be governing board of a public school?”

Mrs. Archer, being a wise wife, smoothed his ruffled feelings by remarking: “Nobody, of course. You’re the brainiest man anywhere this side of Genoa.” Then she added, with a sigh, “I’ll have to give up reading that paper to-morrow, and you’ll have to drive over and tell ’em I was took sick or something. If I was you, I’d stop in at the bank while you’re in Genoa, and clinch the matter about dismissin’ that upstart of a Miss Bayley.”

“That’s just what I’ll do!” Mr. Archer agreed, as he drove into his barnyard.

They had forgotten that on the next day the teacher and Dixie Martin were also going to Genoa.