Chapter 7

"Hasn't, eh?" smiled Bishop. "You just wait a minute and you'll get the bouquet--as you wine experts call it. It's one of these coming tastes, but when it hits you you cry for more."

It was as the farmer said. There came to our palates the subtle gustatory perfume of apple blossoms. Within the old cask there had been stored the fragrance and the spell of the orchard of half a century agone. It was the wine of the apple; the favoured fruit of the gods.

"Is it supposed to be intoxicating?" asked Marshall. Bishop laughed uproariously, and Harding joined in his merriment.

"My boy," Bishop said, "it's as intoxicating as the feel of your sweetheart's cheek against your own, only it affects you in a different way. I've known a man to fill up on that smooth-tastin' and innocent lookin' stuff an' not come tew until he was on shipboard, an' half way to Cape Horn. Under its influence the secretary of a peace society would tackle the Japanese navy in a rowboat. From what I know about mythology I'm sure Mars drank it regular."

Our host drew a generous allowance from a cask containing a more recent vintage, and led the way from out the old cellar to seats beneath the trees facing the smooth turf of an unused croquet ground.

LaHume wandered away in search of the ladies, whose laughter and chatter from the near-by veranda proved they were cheerfully enduring his absence. I caught a glimpse of Wallace as he drove the cows into the old barn, and wondered if LaHume seriously considered the "hired man" as a rival.

We filled our pipes and lay back in the comfortable seats, content to listen to the music of the birds overhead, and follow aimlessly the conversation between Bishop and Harding. The cider from the sacred cask had bridged the years which separated them from boyhood days back in Buckfield, Maine.

The old grindstone reminded Harding of an incident, to the telling of which both contributed details. They told of swimming exploits; of how they helped lock the school teacher out of the little red building which seemed to them a prison; they told of blood-curdling feats of coasting and of skating on thin ice, and of other things more or less distorted, perhaps, when seen through the haze of forty years.

Then they told of the boys they had "licked," and of the boys who had whipped them, also of the feud between the lads of Buckfield and Sumner and the desperate encounters which resulted from it.

"Do you remember, Bob," asked Bishop, after a moment's pause, "of that 'rasslin' match we had on the floor of your dad's barn?"

"The time I got a black eye, and you lost part of your ear?" asked Harding, his eyes brightening at thought of it.

"That's the time," declared Bishop. "I tore your clothes most to pieces."

"I don't remember about that," responded the railroad magnate, "but I do remember that I flopped you three times out of five."

"Three times outer nothin'!" exclaimed the farmer. "I put you down fair and square three times running, Bob, and if you'll stop and think a minute you'll recollect it."

"Recollect nothing!" defiantly laughed Harding. "You never saw the day in your life, when you or any boy in Buckfield could put my shoulders to the ground three times running. You're losing your memory, Jim."

"I did it all right."

"I say you didn't!"

"And I can do it again!"

"You can, eh?" shouted Harding, springing to his feet and pulling off his coat. "We'll mighty quick see if you can! I'll tackle you right here on this croquet ground!"

"Side holt, square holt, or catch-as-catch-can?" asked Bishop, casting one anxious look towards the house.

"We always rassled catch-as-catch-can, and you know it," declared Harding. "I suppose you think just because I do nothing but build railroads and things that I've grown effeminate since you tackled me the last time. Come on; I'll show you!"

"I'm afraid I'll hurt you, Bob," said Bishop, and I could see that he honestly meant it. "I've been outer doors all my life, an' you've been----"

"I suppose you think I've been in an incubator, don't ye?" snorted Harding. "Don't weaken! Don't be a coward, Jim! There's the line; toe it!" and he marked a crease in the soft turf.

"You bet I'll toe it!" growled the now irate farmer. "And don't whimper if I break a bone or two when I flop ye!"

As Bishop threw his cap to the ground and rushed toward the defiant millionaire Carter saw fit to interfere.

"Don't do this," he protested, jumping between them. "One of you will get hurt! It's dangerous for men of your age to wrestle!"

Both of them reached out and brushed Carter away, and the next instant they were at it.

Bishop ducked and got an underhold, and I was sure Harding would go down, but he braced himself with his huge legs, and with the strength of a giant broke the clasp of his opponent's arms. It takes skill as well as muscle to do this, and I saw at a glance that Harding had not forgotten the tricks of his boyhood. As Bishop spun half-way around the other caught him at a disadvantage, raised him clear from the turf and dashed him down, falling with all his weight upon him.

It was as clean and quick a fall as I have seen, but for a second my heart stood still, fearing Bishop's neck had been broken. He gasped once or twice, and then I heard a muffled laugh.

"Let me up, Bob; that's one for you!" he said, and both struggled to their feet. There was a rent in the right knee of Harding's trousers, and his shirt was a sight, but he neither knew of this nor would have cared for it.

"Not quite so soft and easy as you thought I was eh, Jim?" he panted, extending his hand. "You got the holt all right, but you wasn't quick enough."

"I held you too cheap that time," admitted Bishop, rather sheepishly, throwing away a pair of ruined suspenders, "but I'll get you this time. Come on, Bob!"

"You referee this match, Smith!" said Harding, standing on guard. "You know the rules. No fall unless both shoulders and one hip is down."

Misfortune had taught Bishop caution. I could see he feared Harding's enormous strength and that he aimed to wind him if possible. He managed to elude the grasp of his antagonist for probably a minute, and more by luck than skill fell on top when the end of the clinch came. But Harding was not down by any means, and there then ensued a struggle which made me oblivious to all surroundings.

Though I was the referee I was "rooting" for Harding, and so was Carter, while Marshall and Chilvers were giving mental and vocal encouragement to Bishop. I do not suppose any of us realised we were saying a word.

First Harding would have a slight advantage, and then the tide would turn in favour of Bishop. The latter was more agile, but the former outclassed him in power. They writhed along that croquet ground like two gigantic tumble-bugs locked in a life and death struggle. Neither said a word, and both were absolutely fair in attack and defense. As the struggle continued it seemed to me that Harding was weakening, but he told me later he was merely resting for the effort which would insure him victory.

I heard the swish of skirts, the frightened cry of female voices, and the next instant two most estimable ladies invaded the improvised ring and laid hands on the principals.

I doubt if the combined physical exertion of Mrs. Bishop and Mrs. Harding could have made the slightest impress on the embrace which held their lords and masters, but what they said had a magical and peacemaking effect.

"James Bishop, you should be ashamed of yourself!" exclaimed Mrs. Bishop, tugging at the remnant of a shirt, which promptly detached itself from the general wreck.

"Robert Harding, what do you mean by fighting?" gasped Mrs. Harding, tugging at his undershirt, the outer garment long since having lost its entity.

Instantly they relaxed their holds, rolled over and came to a sitting posture, facing each other and their respective wives. It was as if the act had carefully been rehearsed, and was ludicrous beyond any description at my command.

Their glances rested for an instant on one another, and then on their frightened and indignant helpmates. Their attitude was that of two schoolboys detected by their teachers in some forbidden act. I am sure Harding would have spoken sooner if he could have recovered his breath.

"We're not fighting, my dear!" he managed to say. "Are we, Jim?" he added with a mighty effort.

"Of course not," declared Bishop, gouging a piece of turf from his eye. "We're only rasslin'; that's all, isn't it, Bob?"

"And you in your best suit of clothes, James Bishop!" exclaimed his good wife.

"You should see how you look, Mr. Harding," added his better half with justifiable emphasis. "Are you hurt?" anger changing to solicitude.

"Of course I'm not hurt," he asserted. "We were only fooling. Where in thunder is my shirt?"

And then Chilvers and Carter and Marshall and I exploded. It was not a dignified thing to do, and I apologised to both of the ladies afterward, but we fell down on that mutilated croquet-ground and laughed until exhausted. I am glad Miss Harding and the others were not there.

Assisted by their wives the two gladiators had struggled to their feet, but the most cursory inspection disclosed that they were more presentable when on the ground. And then the ladies joined in the laugh.

"Jack," said Mr. Bishop, who has called me by that nickname since I was seven years old, "Jack, go out to the old barn and get a pair of horse blankets. You know where I keep them."

"You've got a great head on you, Jim," roared Harding. "I was thinking of a pair of barrels."

When I returned with the red and yellow blankets the ladies had disappeared.

"Never mind sending down to the club for your other clothes," Bishop was saying. "I've got several suits, such as they are, and I reckon one of them will fit ye."

"This blanket is pretty good," declared the magnate. "Say, Jim, what was it you said about that fifty-year-old cider?"

"I'm glad I didn't give you any more of it; I'd lost my life as well as my clothes," declared the farmer. "If they'd stayed away 'nother minute or so I'd won that second fall, sure as sin, Bob," he said, rather ruefully, as we wrapped the blanket around him.

"You just think you would," grinned Harding, lifting up the blanket so as to keep from stumbling over it. "Say, it must be tough to have to wear skirts all the time. Be a good fellow, Smith, and hold up my train."

They tried to sneak in at the back entrance, but Miss Harding and the others saw them and headed them off. I shall never forget their looks of amazement, and then the screams of laughter which followed the hurried explanation.

I must postpone an account of the dinner and the dance until the next entry.

ENTRY NO. XI

THE BARN DANCE

We gave Mr. Harding a great reception when he appeared on the veranda, arrayed in garments furnished by our host. I have an idea Mr. Bishop's wardrobe was about exhausted when the two of them had completed their toilet.

"What do you think of me?" demanded Harding, striking a pose.

He obtained a variety of opinions. They were unable to find a "boiled shirt" with an eighteen inch neck band or collar, so a blue gingham one was made to do service. The only coat broad enough across the shoulders was a "Prince Albert," in which Bishop had been married, and Harding admitted the combination was not exactly _de rigeur_. The trousers were woefully tight at the waist, and were inches too long.

"You are lucky to get anything," declared Mrs. Harding, retying the wonderful red and yellow scarf and vainly attempting to smooth out some of the wrinkles in the coat. "You should be made to go home and to bed without your supper."

"You surely are the real goods, Governor," said Chilvers, walking about him and inspecting his costume from all angles. "What show have Marshall and the rest of us at to-night's dance against you?"

Miss Lawrence pinned a bunch of nasturtiums on his coat, and we all stood and hilariously admired him. Bishop called him aside and motioned me to join them.

"Mother and I don't know what to do about Wallace," our host said, after hesitating a moment. "He's our hired man, you know," he added.

"What about him?" asked Harding.

"He's always eaten with us," Bishop said. "He's a quiet, well-behaved sorter chap, and he's company for us, but mother is afraid it wouldn't be just the thing to have him at the table when company's here, and so I thought I'd ask you and Jack. We don't have folks here very often, and I wanter do what's right."

"You have him sit right down with us," promptly advised Harding. "If there's anybody in this country who has a right to eat good and plenty it's a hired man. If any of our folks don't like it, let them wait until the second table."

That settled it, and I could see that Bishop was pleased over the outcome.

"I sorter hated to tell Wallace to wait," he said to me after Harding had turned away. "It might offend him. He's a queer fish, but has the makings of the best hired man in the county."

When we entered the big dining-room Wallace was sitting in one corner reading. He laid aside the book, arose and bowed slightly. Harding went right up to him.

"Mr. Wallace, I believe," he said, shaking hands. "My name's Harding, and I'll introduce you to the rest of us." And he did.

This young Scotchman is a handsome chap. His features are those of Byron in his early manhood. His hair is dark and wavy as it falls back from a smooth high forehead. He is tall, broad of shoulder and singularly easy and graceful in his movements. He certainly looks like a man who has seen better days.

I am still inclined to my original opinion that he is some college chap who is trying to get a financial start so as to enter on his chosen profession.

He sat opposite me, and not until the first course was served did I notice that he was to the right of Miss Lawrence, with LaHume to her left. When I first observed this trio Miss Lawrence and Wallace already were engaged in a spirited conversation--or, more properly speaking, Miss Lawrence was.

There was a babble of voices and of laughter, and I could make out little they were saying during the early part of the dinner, though I was so impolite as to attempt to do so. Miss Lawrence was praising the scenic beauties of Woodvale and its environs, he adding a word or a sentence now and then with the tact of one pleased to listen to the chatter of a charming companion. The trace of Scotch in his enunciation was so slight as to defy reproduction, but it was sufficient to stamp the place of his nativity.

LaHume made several attempts to join in their conversation, and though Wallace lent him all possible aid Miss Lawrence effectually discouraged LaHume's participation. He reminded me of a boy making ineffectual attempts to "catch on behind" a swift-moving sleigh, and who is finally tumbled on his head for his pains.

Mrs. Bishop is famous the country round as a cook, and she excelled herself that afternoon. Bishop is a crank on truck gardening, and the vegetables served would have taken prizes in any exhibit. A delicious soup was followed by a baked sea trout--I must not forget to ask Mrs. Bishop how she made that sauce.

I wonder why it is that the most skilled hotel chefs cannot fry spring chicken so as to faintly imitate the culinary wonders attained by a capable housewife?

"I want to ask you a question, Mrs. Bishop," said Mr. Harding, after he had made a pretense of refusing a third helping of fried chicken. "Did you really raise these chickens on this farm?"

Mrs. Bishop smiled and said they did.

"I don't believe it," he returned. "If the truth were known they lit down here from heaven, and Jim Bishop nailed them and you cooked them."

I was ashamed of Chilvers. He ate seven ears of green corn and boasted of it, but I will admit I did not know it was possible to produce corn such as was served at that farmhouse dinner. The crisp sliced cucumbers, the ice-cold tomatoes, the succulent hearts of lettuce, the steaming dishes of string beans, summer squash, and green peas--it makes me hungry as I write of that simple but excellent feast.

I thought as we sat there of the democracy of that little gathering. There was Harding, the multi-millionaire railway magnate, in his hickory shirt; the fastidious and monocled Carter with his wealth and boasted New England ancestry; Miss Lawrence, an heiress in whose veins flowed the purest blood of the southern aristocracy; Mr. and Mrs. Bishop, plain honest folk from 'way down east in Maine; and the unknown Wallace, driven no doubt by stress of poverty from the hills of his beloved country--there we all were meeting one another as equals, enjoying the bounties Nature has so lavishly bestowed on her children.

I caught Miss Harding's eye, and she smiled as if in sympathy with my wandering thoughts. It takes a remarkably pretty young woman to lose none of her charm while eating green corn off the cob, but Miss Harding triumphantly stands that test. She was talking to Marshall, who is so constitutionally slow that he is invariably half a course behind everyone else at a table.

Marshall was attempting to explain to Miss Harding how it is possible to hook a ball and play off the right foot. He laid out a diagram on the table cloth, using "lady-fingers" to show the positions of the feet, a round radish to indicate the ball, and a fruit knife to illustrate the face and direction of the club.

Chilvers watched this most unconventional dinner performance with a grin on his face, and just as Marshall was showing just how the club should follow through, Chilvers called "Fore!" in a sharp tone. Miss Harding and Marshall were so absorbed in the elucidation of this most difficult golf problem that they instinctively dodged, and when Miss Harding recovered, her cheeks were delightfully crimson.

I never noticed until that moment that there are traces of dimples in her cheeks. Unless Venus had dimples she had no just claim to be crowned the goddess of love and beauty.

"Jim," said Mr. Harding, addressing our host, when coffee was served, "did you know our friend Smith when he was a kid?"

"Knew him when he couldn't look over this table," replied Mr. Bishop.

"What kind of a boy was he?"

"Full of the Old Nick, like most healthy boys," he answered. "He and my boy Joe went to school together, got into trouble together and got out of it again. What was it the boys used to call you, Jack?" he said to me, a twinkle in his eye.

"Never mind," I said, and attempted to turn the conversation, but it was no use.

"They used to call him 'Socks Smith,'" said Bishop. "That was it, 'Socks Smith.' I hadn't thought of it in years."

"What an alliterative nickname," laughed Mrs. Chilvers. "How did you ever acquire it, Mr. Smith?"

"He won't tell ye," declared my tormentor, without waiting for me to say a word, "but it's nothin' to his discredit. You know that mill pond where--"

"Don't tell that incident," I protested.

"Tell it! Tell it, Mr. Bishop!" pleaded Miss Lawrence, Miss Harding, and others in chorus.

"Sure I'll tell it," continued Bishop. "As I was saying, you all know the mill pond where you folks try to drive golf balls over. Well, it uster be bigger an' deeper than it is now, and in the winter it was the skating place for all the lads in the neighbourhood. Up at the far end there is a spring, and even in the coldest weather it don't freeze over above that spring."

"One bitter cold day--and it never gets cold enough to keep boys off smooth ice--young Smith, here--he was about twelve or fourteen years old at that time--was out on the ice with his skates on, wrapped up in an overcoat, a comforter over his ears and thick mittens on his hands, skatin' around that pond with my boy Joe and other lads, all of them thinkin' they was havin' the time of their lives. Mother, what was the name of that poor family that lived over in the old Bobbins' house at the time?"

"Andersons," said Mrs. Bishop.

"That's right; Andersons," continued the Boswell of my infantile exploits. "Well, these Andersons were so poor they didn't have any skates, but some of the boys had let them take a sled, and two of these little Anderson kids were slidin' around on the ice and havin' all the fun they could, even if they didn't have skates. I suppose their toes was as cold and their noses as blue, and that's half of skatin' or sleighin'."

"Smith, Joe, and the other skaters were on the southwest end of the pond playin' 'pigeon goal,' and these poor Anderson kids were slidin' around up at the other end where they would be out of the way. The wind was blowin' pretty hard, and I suppose they were careless; anyhow a gust struck them and swept them along into that air hole."

"They yelled as best they could, and some boys who were near them hollered, and the boys who were skating heard them and came tearing along to see what was the matter. Jack Smith, here, was fixing a strap or somethin', and was the last one to get started. The whole bunch of them were standin' 'round watching those poor Anderson kids drown, so scared they didn't know what to do. The poor little tots were hanging onto the sled right out in the middle of an open space about thirty yards wide."

"Jack, here, never stopped a second. He saw what was up as he came skatin' along, and he legged it all the harder, and in he went--skates, overcoat, comforter, mittens and all. It's no easy job swimmin' with such an outfit, to say nothin' of rescuin' two half-drowned youngsters, and I don't know how he did it, and I don't reckon you do either, Jack. But anyhow, he got to them, paddled along to the edge of the ice, and held on to them until the other boys pushed out boards and finally got the whole caboodle of 'em up on solid ice."

"Bully for you, Smith!" exclaimed Chilvers, "didn't know it was in you."

"Mr. Chilvers is jealous of you," declared Miss Lawrence. "I think it was real heroic."

"So do I," asserted Miss Harding, "but I cannot imagine how you acquired so absurd a nickname as 'Socks Smith' from that incident."

"Was the water cold?" asked Marshall.

"I hav'n't finished my story," said Mr. Bishop, after these and other comments had-been made. "I reckon the water was some cold, and the air colder; at any rate I happened along in my wagon just as they were draggin' them out, and before I could get them up to Smith's father's house the whole bunch of them was frozen so stiff that I had to pack 'em into the kitchen like so much cordwood."

"But boys of that age are tough, and when they had been thawed out, boiled in hot baths, and blistered with mustard poultices they was as good as new, and I reckon the Anderson kids was a mighty sight cleaner than they had been since the last time they went in swimmin'."

"Now, as I said before, these Andersons were desperate poor, but they were good folks, and what you might call appreciative. Jack had saved the lives of two of the family, and they wanted to show what they thought of him in some way or other. There was twelve children in the Anderson family, six boys and six girls, and the older girls and the old lady went to work, and blamed if they didn't knit a dozen pair of woollen socks and sent them to Jack as a Christmas present."

"And that is how Jack got the name of 'Socks Smith,'" concluded Mr. Bishop, when the laughter had subsided. "For riskin' his life he got all those nice warm socks and a nickname that uster make him so darned mad that I suppose he's had a hundred fights on account of it, and I'm not certain he won't poke me in the jaw when he gets me alone for tellin' this yarn on him."

"This darned woollen yarn," observed Marshall.