Part 20

I had seen too many people trying to make a stake and raise a family at the same time. My father made more money than most—but with ten children, it was slavery for him. He worked sixteen hours a day at his trade as shoemaker—and even then he had to skimp, and work and skimp. But he took a philosophical view of matters, and on the whole his was a rather contented life. One time when he was complaining about the difficulty of getting ahead, I suggested that maybe he had erred in first taking on the responsibility of raising a big family.

He said, “Well, they kept coming and I couldn’t knock ‘em in the head.”

I said, “They didn’t start coming until after you were married—”

He yelped, as if something had stung him, “Of course not, you young upstart!” That was a time when he would have been justified in applying the kneestrap, his ever ready implement of correction, to my posterior. But my father was a forbearing man.

I said, “Gosh, Dad—I only meant to say if you had waited until after you had made your stake, you would not now be bothered with this burdensome load.”

He said, quickly, “If I had waited longer where do you think you’d be now, young man?”

Well, that was something to think about. It might have upset the whole continuity. I think we older boys reminded him too often of the excess baggage he was struggling along with—only, however, when he would begin his lamenting, usually about the high tariff.

I can think of nothing more disturbing than to be caught short-handed (otherwise broke) in a community marked by a dearth of opportunity to earn a living—-With dependents to care for. Such was our country in the early days. My parents had rubbed up against this situation on numerous occasions. However, unlike some of our neighbors, the time never came when we did not have enough to eat. But that “hand to mouth” rule of living could not rub out the anxiety.

It was an era when the ambitious young fellow was of necessity compelled early in life to begin laying-by for the “rainy day” if he did not wish to run the risk of becoming an object of charity—and who did in the old days? It was then considered about the last straw. It took a long time to lay-by a competence in the old days. The average wage-earner gets as much per hour now as was paid for a whole day’s work then—when ten hours was a day. This is not to say the young “sprout” could not marry before he had a competence. He did—recklessly. And paid the price.

It was to avoid such conditions as this that I made a firm resolve to defer marriage until I could make a stake.

I set my goal at $10,000, and when things got going good I kept right on going until this goal was more than doubled — and in subsequent years learned that it was none too much:

However, in strict honesty, I think this cautious streak was inherited rather than instilled in me by observations. My father had entertained the same cautious notions. Orphaned early in life, he made his own way—saved, and had what he called a nice nest-egg at the age of 25. He went from Kentucky over into Tennessee to visit relatives, met my mother while there—and married her the next time he came into her back-woods community. And had it not been for the cruel Civil War—and the guerillas—I am pretty sure: that I would have had a rich Dad regardless of his super-abundance of kids.

However, conditions changed for the better for father. When his boys got big enough to lessen the burden, and then in time lift it altogether, he had an easy life. My brother Frank worked with him in the shoeshop, and at the same time conducted a shoe store in the front end of the building, with our sister Nannie in charge. When Frank decided to go to California to join his brother Dave in business, he gave them the shoe stock. I had written insurance in the sum of $1,000 for Frank, and when the assigned policy was about to expire I mentioned the matter one day at the dinner table. Father said, “Oh, I don’t need any insurance.”

I renewed the policy anyway, paid the premium myself, and said no more about it. Then, some months later, a fire destroyed the old Logue frame store building across the street, in early evening—and the town was out in numbers. There was little chance of the blaze reaching my father’s shop, but he and several excited volunteers were making ready to remove the shoe stock to the street. I told him that he better just get his books and records where he could put his hands on them in case of need, and to leave the stock in the building for a while, at least. Thinking to ease his fears, I said, “You’ve got a thousand dollar insurance policy on the stock.” He exclaimed, excitedly, “Oh, that’s not enough!”

By this time—we are now back again on the matter of girls, mostly — the girl’s papa had been elevated to the Mayorality, and the family was now operating the Wetmore hotel. On one of my trips home from Seneca, after spending a pleasant hour with the girl, I dropped in on the poker game, just to greet the boys, and watch the play. I had reformed then — mostly, I think, on account of the girl. Incidentally, I may say I reformed more times than a backslider ever confessed his sins—every time, I think, on account of a girl—before finally realizing that it was not the way to build character.

The game then was in the Billy Buzan residence—af ter his wife’s death—on the corner where Bob Cress’ residence is now, west of the telephone office. It was the original William Cawood location, with the west portion of the high fence (seven-foot up and down pine boards) still standing. That high fence had enclosed four lots, and held in captivity a “pet” deer for several years. When the Mayor and a guest of the hotel came in at the front door, I slipped out the back door, as I thought unobserved by His Honor, and streaked it, in bright moonlight, to the fence and went over almost without touching. The next day the Mayor said to me, “Young fellow, I saw your shirt-tail going over that high board fence last night.” But he hadn’t. It was before the young sports had begun to wear their shirt-tails on the outside of their pants. And then again I never was guilty of that slovenly habit.

About that deer. It finally jumped over the gate at the southeast corner of the enclosed grounds—and was gone for several days. But it came back and jumped in again. Then, it made a game of jumping out and jumping in — with periodic trips to the country. Then, one morning there were two deer in the enclosure. I think the “pet” deer tried its best to domesticate the visitor — but after three days, the call of the wilds claimed them both.

Some years later—after he had spent a couple of years in Arkansas, and was now back in the hotel again, in Wetmore—”Papa” was in a tight spot at Enid, Oklahoma, the third day after the opening of the Cherokee Strip, September 16,1893. He had made the run, staked a claim, and was in line—a very long line—at the Land Office, waiting his turn to file. I had already filed on my claim. While in line, I observed soldiers, who were supposed to be on hand to see that everyone would get a fair deal, were running in people ahead of me—and a little later, a man I shall simply call Eddie—apparently in the role of chief grafter—whom I had known in Wetmore, approached me with a proposition to advance me in line for $5. I was too near the door to be interested—and besides, my brother Dave who held a filing number next to mine, promised to “wipe the earth up” with Ed if we should be delayed further. Might say here that the gang followed this remunerative activity with another dirty practice. They filed contests on claims, so that the rightful locators would, in many instances, buy them off rather than stand the expense of fighting the case. Then Dave had to give Mr. Ed that promised thrashing. It got Dave a prompt withdrawal of the contest. I was the only one of our party of four who did not have to fight a contest. My friendship, or co-operation with the crooks, whichever way you choose to look at it, had, I presume, saved me.

After I had filed on my claim, I carried the “good” news of Mr. Eddie’s activities to “Papa.” I knew he was anxious to get back home to his hotel business, where he was trying hard to re-establish himself after returning from Arkansas. He asked me to contact Mr. Eddie for him—and said, “I’ll be your uncle.”

The soldiers advanced him to near the door—and there the line became static once more, as other advancements were being pushed in ahead of him. Then Ed told me that for $10 more the soldiers would put him through the door without delay. “Papa” dug up the $10, and said, “Do this for me Son, and I’ll dance at your wedding.” Now he could call me “Son” and offer to dance at my wedding.

There are three girls prominently featured in this story, whose names I do not wish to divulge. Substituting, I maybe should call the first one Miss Beautiful, for she was all that. But from here on, until further notice, I shall refer to them as My Best Girl, The Old Girl, and The Kid.

In all too short time my nemesis, in the person of a certain rich man’s son, an older brother of that other boy, got on my trail. I do not think it was to avenge his disappointed brother, but it could have been that. He told the boys it was to prove that he was “man enough” to “bump” me.

Well, just for once, it was not a bad guess. He would be working on fertile ground. I didn’t care too much for the Old Girl anyway. She was my senior by four or five years, and naturally she would welcome a good “catch.” It was understood between us that she was only filling a vacancy, and thereby providing a way to keep us in the Silver Stocking circle. The thing I didn’t like was to be “bumped” just for the fun of it, as viewed by the RM’s son.

Mike Norton, clerk in the DeForest store, saw the rich man’s son write a letter to the Old Girl, and he thought this would be the time when the RM’s son would try to make good his boast. Three days hence there was to be a picnic in a grove south of Netawaka, and the Silver Stocking boys and girls were lining up to go in a body. Mike and other members of the circle put in two hours looking for me. The boys, and the girls too, were all for me, in this instance — but not even the King’s Horses could have stopped that boy in his purpose. The postmaster showed me the letter with the OG’s name spelled out in bold relief—and I was off at once, thinking I would now show this RM’s son that he could not do this to me.

The Old Girl said she was awfully sorry—that she had promised another, naming the rich man’s son. I said, in substance—though really not sore at the OG, I think I was not in a frame of mind to phrase it just so—”Let’s see where we stand. The way things are shaped up now, I’m out—that is, barred from the Silver Stocking crowd by the rules of my own helpful making.”

She suggested that I go back to the girl I have designated as My Best Girl—said, “I KNOW you can, if you will just spunk up a little.” I had never “spunked” much with the OG.

“But,” I said, “if I should succeed in dating her, someone else would be out, and that someone is your old beau. Likely timber maybe. Then, in case your date does not choose to repeat, you might still have a chance to get back with the old crowd.”

She laughed — the OG was feeling pretty good, just then—and said, “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Now she giggled, “But, you know, I could always be a hanger-on, maybe even go with you and your girl—just in case.” A boy was permitted to take more than one girl—even a flock of them if he were unlucky enough.

Now the atmosphere around the OG’s home had changed, with exultant spirits taking a nose-dive. That letter was for the purpose of calling off a date. She was really too nice a girl to be buffed around like that — but please note that I did not hold with any such buffings. She had forfeited her chance to go with the crowd to the picnic. Now, more than ever, she wanted to go. She first took her troubles to her bosom friend, Bessie Campfield, wife of Judge Elwin Campfield. She wanted to know how could she, with propriety, get word to me that after all she would be free to go with me to the picnic. Bessie had spent some anxious moments trying to round up a courier to apprise me of that letter. She said to the OG, “I don’t know about that now. I could have told you about that fellow’s egotistical designs.”

The Old Girl lived with her aged parents, and when they would go away for the night, as they often did to visit another daughter in the country, she would have a young neighbor girl—not too young, but much younger than she-stay the night with her. The old folks were away now, and the young girl had been called in for the night.

The Old Girl was still worried. I’m now almost sorry that I ever started this “Old Girl” differential, as it smacks of disrespect — and I do not want the reader to form any such ideas. The OG first asked the young girl to come up town with her—then, remembering that her best friend had dropped a hint that the ground upon which she now stood was insecure, she decided that she was not constitutionally able to face me just then with her problem. She sent the young girl, alone.

But the Kid—that’s what they called her when we went together to the picnic, and thereafter as a member of the Silver Stocking crowd—said, “If you go with her now, you will be the biggest fool in the world. All she wants to go with you for, is to see who he takes,” naming the RM’s son.

The Kid was smart.

But please do not think the so-called Kid was betraying a trust. She was really a woman now. And, besides, she had reason to believe that, to use a homely expression, she were very soon going to get the OG’s goat, anyway.

And moreover, the Old Girl later told the “Kid,” perhaps in a gesture of discouragement, that I had gone with her steadily for nearly a year, and had never tried to kiss her. Had that not been the truth it would have been libel. -In the old days, the prudent young man did not dare kiss an old girl who was only filling a vacancy.

Prior to this, the “Kid” and I had “starred” in a local entertainment entitled “Beauty and Beelzebub” — and mutual admiration had blossomed then. She was the Angel and I was the Devil. In the tableau, the Devil, encased in a tight-fitting black sateen cover-all, with horns and a four-foot forked tail, was suspended on wires about four feet off the floor when the curtain went up. Then the Angel, up in the clouds, began the descent with song, the singing increasing in volume as she came down bare feet first, with outstretched wings, settling in front of the Devil. The “Kid” made a pretty picture, with her abundant dark hair — which, I happen to know, came down nearly to her ankles — spread over the white flowing covering whose traditional folds parted in front just enough to indicate that she dwelt in a place where shoes and stockings were taboo. The Angel departed by the same route—wire and windlass mechanism—went up into the clouds from whence she had come, with more singing, at first in full voice, then fading, fading, fading away in a manner denoting distance. In her young budding womanhood the “Kid” made a beautiful Angel — and the clear, sweet singing was out of this world.

Coral Hutchison was at first considered for the Angel. She was a beautiful girl, and a beautiful singer—and while she had a wonderful head of hair, quite as long as the “Kid’s,” its rather too blonde shade ruled her out. So the “Kid,” with the requisite dark hair, was given a place in the spot-light—and Coral did the singing behind the scenes.

Sorry, I can’t tell you what event or setting that tableau portrayed. There was much more to the show, speaking parts and superb acting. And though clearly the “Kid” and I were “it,” the whole show was titled “Beauty and Beelzebub.”

At the picnic, my adversary, the rich man’s son, said to me, “I see you’ve got a new girl. How come?” I said, “Yeah—likewise you. Thanks for the assist.” After I had started to walk on, he called, “Hey, John, whatsha mean by that?”

He was with Lou Kern. Hattie and Lou Kern, and Nina and Emma Bolman, were four Netawaka girls that were popular with our Silver Stocking crowd; as were also Caroline Emery, living in the country northeast of Wetmore, and her visiting friend, Mamie Blakeslee, a former neighbor whose home was now in Savannah, Mo.

Mamie Blakeslee was a strikingly pretty girl.

I shall now dwell a bit on a personal incident in connection with this beautiful girl. It was away back in 1884. I don’t think the girl was on my mind that day when I went to St. Joe. But, in St. Joe, I ran onto Bill (Hickorynut) Bradley who was on his way to Savannah, and he asked me to go along with him. One Oliver Bateman was to be hanged for the murder of two little girls who had caught him in an embarrassing act. The railroad was offering excursion rates, and the sleepy old Missouri town was decked out in celebration colors, with refreshment stands all along the lane from the jail to the gallows in an amphitheater in the nearby woods—everybody on the make.

Unlike Hickorynut, the hanging did not interest me, but the thought of seeing Mamie did. I called at the Blakeslee home on the outskirts of Savannah — it was a farm traded by G. N. Paige for the Blakeslee farm near Wetmore—on the pretense of wanting to see Mamie’s brother Edwin, who had been my schoolmate in Wetmore. He was not at home. I remained a reasonable time with Mamie, aiming to work up a little courage, and maybe ask her to go places with me—but lost my nerve.

Two hours later I met Mamie, with another girl, on a downtown street near the St. Charles hotel. Mamie said there was to be skating at the rink that night, and would I like to go? I certainly would. So now, after all, we would be going places together.

I called at the Blakeslee home for the two girls, and the ‘skating was going fine. Then, of a sudden, Miss West told me that Mamie was in a jam. Her steady, a traveling salesman, had unexpectedly dropped in on her — and, for some reason, likely well founded, Mamie had not intended to let him know about her going out with another fellow.

I told Miss West that we could fix that all right, if she herself did not have a steady sticking around somewhere. Miss West laughed, and assured me she did not have a steady. “If agreeable,” I said, “you shall now be my company, and, to all appearances, Mamie shall be the hanger-on, free to desert me for her steady.” Miss West laughed again, though she looked as if she were a little concerned about my reference to Mamie as the new hanger-on. Well, it was a slip. It was a term often applied to the extra girls in our Silver Stocking circle.

While visiting in Wetmore before this, Mamie had gone to a dance in Netawaka with a local man who proved to be not to her liking, and she had quit him cold at the dance hall door. Though it would hardly cause a ripple now, it was then considered about the worst thing that could happen to a young fellow’s social standing. I do not wish to identify him—yet I must give him a name to be used in Mamie’s pay-off to me for liberating her at the Savannah rink.

In the substitution of names, one is liable to innocently hit upon somebody’s real name, and to avoid the possibility of making this error, I shall give him the surname of his business partner, and go through the customary formality of saying that any similarity in names is purely coincidental. The man was half-owner of the livery stable from which we all got our “rigs” that night. And, anyway, the partners left here together for the state of Washington many, many years ago, and there should be no chance for repercussions now.

Mamie knew that I was familiar with the Netawaka incident—in fact, it was I who did the shifting with Sidney Loop to get her back home. When Miss West had delivered my message, Mamie broke away from her steady, rolled gracefully around the hall, and plumped herself down by my side, saying, “Thank you so much! It gets me out of an awful jam! And I want you to know that this is no Dr. Fisher deal!” I wondered? You know a girl, in competition with other girls, might strive for long to vamp a certain good catch—which is always a girl’s privilege—and then when the chance offers, find herself tied up for the time being with someone that right away stinks.

The Blakeslee family formerly lived on a farm four miles northeast of Wetmore, directly north of the old Ham Lynn farm. Mamie’s father, Nelson Blakeslee, often called at my father’s shoeshop for a visit. One time they planned on chartering a car together and shipping to California. I did not know Mamie then—but have since wondered what might have happened had they gone through with their plans.

Evidently Mamie did not make the most of the opportunity afforded her that night back in Savannah. She married Frank Schilling, of Hiawatha. There were some dark surmises that she stole Caroline Emery’s beau. “Stole” is an ugly word to be written in connection with this sweet, conscientious girl—as I knew her then. I would rather believe that Miss Emery’s beau was a man of rare good judgment. I have not seen Mamie since that night at the skating rink in Savannah. Now widowed, she lives in Fairview — thirty minutes away from Wetmore.

Back again on the main theme: In the days which followed, I said to myself—thought it with vengeance, anyway—that I would like to see the color of the hair of any d—d RM’s son that could make me give up this one, meaning the “Kid,” of course. And may I say that for once I now believed I had my girl matters well in hand.

But, believe it or not, still another son of that same rich man tried his darndest to edge in. At this time the younger boys had the habit of lining up on the outside of the church, at Epworth League meetings, and grab themselves a girl, with a polite, and sometimes not so polite, “May I “see you home?” After the third “No, thank you,” from the “Kid,” the RM’s son told her to go to that place which is sometimes politely called hades.

Mrs. Pheme Wood, a well meaning soul who had been an intimate friend of our family since the first day we came here in 1869, and who apparently took a special interest in my welfare, stopped me one day while passing her home, and said, “There’s something I want to ask you. Of course I don’t believe it, but I’ll ask anyway. Were you out sleigh-riding with Myrtle Mercer the day her father lay dead in the home?”

Myrtle was the afore-mentioned “Kid.”

I had not intended to name her just yet, but her identity would have to come out soon anyway, as she figures in this story to the end. And then some.

“Well,” I said—but got no further. Pheme broke in, “It came to me pretty straight, and one would think—” I stopped her with a promise to ‘fess up, if she would not run to my mother with it. “Oh that,” she laughed, remembering a kindred incident, “was for your own good.” She had gone to my mother on an errand of mercy. That she had her wires badly crossed did not deter her. She said she had it on good authority that I was about to marry the aforesaid Old Girl, who was much too old for me; and that my mother ought to use her influence to prevent it.