Part 4

“Pshaw! Get along with you,” said she.

Johnny’s hand had crept along, somehow, upon its fingers, and began to scrape acquaintance with hers. She sent it home with a desperate jerk. Try it again--no better luck.

“Why, Miss Jones, you’re gettin’ upstroperlous; a little old maidish, I guess.”

“Hands off is fair play, Mr. Blunt.”

Johnny finally managed not only to get hold of Sally’s hand but managed to slip his arm around her waist. But not satisfied with this he began to go poking out his lips for a kiss. But he rued it for Sally fetched him a slap in the face, that made him see stars, and set his ears to ringing like a brass kettle, for a quarter of an hour.

“Ah, Sally, give me a kiss, and ha’ done with it, now?”

“I won’t, so there, nor tech to--”

“I’ll take it whether or no.”

“Do it, if you dare!”

How a bus will crack of a still, frosty night! Mrs. Jones was about halfway between asleep and awake.

“There goes my yeast bottle,” says she to herself, “Burst into twenty hundred pieces; and my bread is all dough again.”

The upshot of the matter is that Johnny fell in love with Sally Jones, head over ears. Every Sunday night, rain or shine, finds him rapping at Squire Jones’ door; and twenty times has he been within a hair’s breadth of popping the question. But now Johnny has made a final resolve. If he lives till next Sunday night, and doesn’t get choked in the trial, Sally Jones will hear thunder.

... The Trusting Maiden

Margery Smith of Chathamport was thrilled and impressed when John Atwood, a respected widower, asked her to be his second wife. Nevertheless, being slightly younger than Widower Atwood, Margery demurred for quite some time before consenting to be his wife. Before she finally said yes, the widower carried on an extensive courtship and it was said that his promise of building a new house for his bride finally convinced her in his favour.

The trusting maiden waited until the knot had been tied before raising the question of the promised new house, only to be met with John’s reply of “Oh, that was jest courtin’ talk, Margy.” But although he shattered love’s young dream in that respect, he did build a small addition on to the old house. Margy spent the rest of her life in that hot ell of a kitchen, and never became mistress of a new house.

... Shipwrecked

On yellowed, tissue-thin paper, bound in leather, and entitled simply “Journal,” was found an entry which matches all the adventure stories of shipwrecked men ever told. Its authenticity can only be judged by the excerpt which follows:

Herein the reader, if there be any, will find the story of my most harrowing experience at sea. It is only by the Grace of God Almighty that I am alive this day to record it thus.

I was twenty years old when I shipped out from Boston on a journey to the East Indies. She was a good ship, my fellow crew members were capable, congenial men, many of whom I had sailed with in the past. Our captain had earned our respect even in the few short days we had been acquainted with him. All hands and officers were convinced that clear sailing and a profitable journey lay before all.

I cannot record here in a vivid enough manner, my impressions during the first three weeks of our sailing. The weather was fair and mild, good winds had prevailed constantly; the life aboard ship was especially pleasant. There was no need for any such feeling as I had found myself indulging in for several days. But it nevertheless prevailed. Perhaps all I can coherently say is that I had a vague unrest, a mind-plaguing thought constantly with me, like the shadow of some dark cloud over my being. This feeling brought with it the still, subconscious impression of disaster and imminent death which I could not, try as I would, shake off. I said nothing to my mates about this feeling. They would perhaps have scoffed at me--if not, my revealing of such an impression would only serve to disturb the uncommonly smooth-running life of our close existence on the lonely seas.

It was on a calm, uneventful afternoon, while all hands were engaged in dilatory activities of repair and small duties, that this feeling reached its highest peak. I felt a strange compulsion to plunge into immediate intense activity, for my fears were mounting by the minute, and, in my youthful mind, I felt vaguely ashamed. I had just left my post by the starboard boat, where I had been engaged in lashing down some canvassing, when I glanced up to see the lookout in the crow’s nest peering intently out to sea. I knew somehow that my fear was about to materialize. And verily, a moment later, the call came from the nest, “Ship on far port horizon ho! She bears the Jolly Roger!”

The action over our entire ship was so instant in contrast to the almost sluggish movements of the minute before that it was as if a painting had suddenly sprung into life, each of its immobile figures leaping into definite motion. We clapped on every sail, but the pirate ship was on us before we could get up enough sail to escape. They sent a shot straight through our rigging.

The happenings of the next hour remain in my mind only as a confused jumble of shouts, clashing swords, and hand to hand combat. The pirate crew were a determined and bloodthirsty lot, not content to merely take over our monetary possessions. They outnumbered us and overpowered us, deliberately destroying and ravaging everything upon which they could lay their hands.

They seemed at last content with what damage they had wrought. The burly pirate captain ordered us to abandon our ship, which he and his men then set afire. Before the fire had reached the hold, what few of our number were left managed to reach some supplies, and with those few essentials, we rowed away. I will never forget the frustrated agony in my soul as I watched our valiant ship, strewn with the bodies of our gallant captain and mates, burn to a charred skeleton, and sink slowly beneath the waters....

There were two lifeboats, lost and tiny as pea pods on a pond, drifting in lone aimlessness on the sea. There were eight of us, including myself, in one boat, and five in the other. We saw the other boat, which we could not reach because of the waves, drift farther and farther away. At last, after it had been hidden from our sight by a monstrous wave, we saw it again, capsized. We tried valiantly to reach those who were floundering in the sea. It was hopeless. One by one they sank beneath the surface, lost forever in the smothering embrace of the sea.

For a day and a night, the fierce winds and huge waves crashed against our small craft, and I cannot explain today why we did not meet the same fate as had our unfortunate comrades in the other boat. Upon the second day, the rolling sea was changed to a flat, millpond surface, and the sun was unbearably hot. We had managed to bring with us only four bottles of water, enough to last but a few days. We did not live, we merely existed. I felt the gnawing, piercing pangs of thirst and hunger congest and constrict my being. Within fourteen days, four of our number had died of thirst, and there were three men besides myself left, starving.

My hands, when I reached up to touch my burned, bearded face, were trembling like a man beset with palsy. My eyes, I knew, were like my comrades’, empty, vacant, hopeless. I was conscious only of a searing ache over my entirety, and my mind was skipping and sliding over disjointed thoughts. We looked at each other, and still did not see; we were conscious only of hunger and heat and thirst. When we spoke, it was as if in a dream. Jackson had managed to hook a small fish, but had not the strength to pull it into the boat. I believe we realized the helplessness of our plight, and began at that moment of realization to get crazed. It was not long before we began to talk of drawing lots to see which of us should be killed to provide food for the others. The thought is horrible and distasteful now, as I sit with my belly full of good warm food, but then the thought meant only one thing--the lessening of the most terrible of pains--Hunger.

We resisted this impulse as long as humanly possible. But at last the time came when we must destroy one of our number, or fall upon each other like crazed wolves. We cast lots, and it fell upon me to be the victim. I prepared to die so that others might live.

I cannot give my reader any searing recollection of faith or impression that come to a man about to die, for I had none. I knew only that my breast was bared, and that one of my mates, with arm raised, was about to plunge his knife into my vitals. I believe that I wanted to die. But the shining knife did not come sweeping down, for at that moment, we heard a gunshot in the distance, and, looking in the direction from which the sound came, saw a white sail on the horizon.

This ship had seen our distress signal--my own shirt which hung from a propped up oar--and had fired a shot to let us know we had been seen. Death, under such horrible circumstances, breathes hotly down on few men.

I lived to see the pirate captain who had been the cause of our agony hanged from his own yardarm in the harbor of Calcutta.

... The Enchanted Mouse

In the early days of Eastham, when the menfolk were concerned with the business of the sea, there lived a Captain Jed Knowles and his young, lovely, and devoted bride. The captain was a fine figure of a man. Mrs. Knowles, for all her beauty and sweet womanliness, was strange indeed, for they said that she had strange supernatural powers.

Mrs. Knowles was devoted to her sailing husband, and, as did many of old time Cape wives, sailed with him on several of his voyages. When love was young, and absence unbearable, Captain Knowles liked to have his wife along with him, but the objections of the crew, who, according to the best sea superstition, believed that a woman aboard was bad luck, soon added to his misgivings about taking her along. Besides, time was not kind to the temper of Mrs. Knowles, and she soon became not a pleasure to have along, but rather a bother. The captain soon decided that such companion voyages must cease.

For several voyages now, Captain Knowles, under great opposition and argument from his good wife, had succeeded in sailing without her.

On one occasion, however, when the captain was to leave for an extensive voyage, his wife once more requested that she be allowed to accompany him. The answer was a firm negative, and much to the captain’s surprise and delight, Mrs. Knowles did not demur, and offered no argument to his decision. And this quick change about fooled the unsuspecting seaman, for he underestimated the power of a woman, especially the strange power of his own wife.

On the day of departure, Mrs. Knowles bade her husband a fond goodbye at the door of their home. The captain went down to the docks, weighed anchor, and was on his way. He did not know, however, that a tiny mouse had followed him aboard close at his heels.

Three days out at sea, the captain got a report from the cook that cheese and other like supplies were being nibbled upon by what was certainly a mouse. The captain, who prided himself on a clean and rodent-free ship, directed him to set poison for the scavenger, and thought no more of the matter.

But the captain did not rest easy. His sleep was disturbed upon many occasions by a rustling, scampering noise in his cabin. When he arose and lit his lamp, he was stunned to see, sitting on the foot of his bunk, a tiny mouse, seemingly unafraid and serene, looking straight at him. This happened night after night, and the captain became quite fond of the little creature. But when upon one occasion, he found that the mouse had eaten up a midnight supper, and gnawed upon his log book, as well as starting to scamper up and down the bed while the captain was asleep, he changed his mind. Taking up his whip, he struck the little mouse with it, killing it, and tossed it out of his porthole.

When the captain returned home, he opened the door to find his wife dead on the floor in a pool of sea water with the mark of a whiplash across her face.

... Ole Bill Hardy

Cal’late I never seed the likes of Ole Bill Hardy. Yep--he was a humdinger alrite. Thar were a heap of shrewd peddlers ’round about in my day, young feller, and b’lieve me, they were the cagiest bunch of fellers y’ ever see. Y’ had ter watch yer step when y’ were bargainin’ withum, yesseree sir, else ye’d find yerself holdin’ the shy end of the stick. But the feller that uster drive the sharpest dickers was Ole Bill Hardy. ’Twa’nt many wimmin, or men folks either, ’round here that hadn’t been spliced at one time or nuther by Ole Bill.

I ’member one time in partic’lar--happened right here in the village, it did. ’Twas quite a spell ago, when you were no more than a twinkle in the divil’s eye. Wal, seems the folks ’round here were gittin’ some purty high flyin’ idees. Th’ town had a hearse--and a durn good one too--that’d bin used for buryin’s for near thuty years. And some uv these folks begun t’ think that mebbee the old mariah ’twa’nt quite toney enuff for ’em, so they sashayed over to town meetin’ and voted to buy a new one.

One day Ole Bill was a’ drivin’ by the old hearse house. Fust S’lectman Bijah Gibbs was loafin’ round the doorway and spied Bill a’comin’. Thought he’d see ifen he could get Ole Bill’s goat. He hollered out, “Say thar, Bill, what’ll y’ give us fer the old hearse?” But Bill didn’t bite. He jest looked Bijah rite in th’ eye and said, “Wal, I dunno. Don’t seem rightly that yer ought ter sell the mariah. Some folks in town ain’t even had a chanct ter ride in it yit. But if ye be of a mind ter sell it, dunnor ifen I might give five dollars fer it.” And sure nuff, Bill bought the old hearse, hitched it onter hind end of his wagon and druv off.

He wuz drivin’ along, proud as yer please, when he passed Miz Tizra Small. Miz Small was alus collectin’ and buyin’ old stuff--antiques, she called ’em. Ole Bill pulled up near her and hollers, “Here’s nuther antique for ye, Miz Small.” Miz Small didn’t think much of the hearse hitched onto the hind end of his wagon. She wuz mad as a wet hen. “Shet up, you old fool,” she says, and sallied off down the street. Bill jest kinda chuckled.

Wal the next thing y’ know, Ole Bill was using the old hearse for a peddler cart, and the women folk were so scandalized they got up a meetin’ to complain about it. Seems they thought it kinda improper that the hearse thetud carried their mothers and fathers to the grave was bein’ used to cart old brooms and tinware. So they raised twenty-five dollars and bought it back from Ole Bill. He didn’t care a mite. He’d made twenty dollars. The old hearse was put back in the hearse house, and stayed there ’til it rotted apart.

’Member nuther time too. Evryone knew Ole Bill would sell anythin’. One day he was drivin’ along and met two young scalawags who thought they’d have a bit o’ fun with him. They up an’ asked him what he’d take for the pants he was wearin’. “Two dollars,” says Bill, ’thout winkin’ an eyelash. And durned if he didn’t peel ’em right off and hand ’em over to the two young fellers, who were kinda taken back, I can tell ye. “Geeyap,” says Bill, and off he druv down the road, all wrapped up in an ole hoss blanket.

... How Sophie Got A Husband

Sometimes a good deed done on the spur of the moment by a well-meaning philanthropist can do more harm than good, and lead to exceedingly comical and unexpected complications. For instance, take the case of Squire Nickerson of Orleans, who never knew the repercussions that resulted from a spontaneous act of kindliness to two strangers.

First of all, let me introduce the principals in this little drama: Squire Nickerson, well-to-do, prominent, kindly; a school marm from Boston whom we shall call Sophie, spinster, acid tongued, parched, and taken to drinking lemon juice, which probably accounted for her parchment-like appearance; and Seth, prominent, well-liked and friendly as the Squire, but in very different circles. To be blunt, Seth was an amiable old reprobate. Good people, all of them, but when they were thrown together, they were stirred around in the darndest stew you ever heard of.

Squire Nickerson was driving, one night long enough ago so we can spare embarrassment to those involved, back from a business meeting in Hyannis. The road from Hyannis to Orleans on the backside route is, and was then, winding and dark. Squire Nickerson was dozing in the back of his carriage when he was bumped from his seat by its sudden stop. Looking around, he saw that he was halted not at his home, but in the dip bend of the road by Pleasant Bay.

“What’s wrong Silas?” he asked his driver.

“Well, sir,” replied Silas puzzledly, “There seems to be someone lying smack in the middle of the road!”

Upon examination, the someone proved to be a rather battered elderly gentleman of indeterminate age, and this gentleman was sound, dead, absolutely asleep in the middle of the road. With a few suspicious sniffs, the Squire and Silas determined with surprise that the man was in a state not of intoxication, but of unusual fatigue.

“Pick him up, Si, and put him in the carriage.”

“But Sir--”

“In the carriage, Si. We can leave him at the Inn, poor fellow. It’s a damp night, and surely in this state he can do us no harm.”

And so the unsuspecting somnambulist was transported from the road to a fine carriage.

The Squire’s carriage, with its new occupant, had not rolled down the road more than a few paces, when it stopped again.

“I say, Sir. This ’eres a thing!” said Silas. “There ’pears to be a lady, sir, at the side of the road!”

“A lady? At the side of the road? Walking--why, no, she’s asleep, too!” cried the Squire, peering out of the carriage window. “Why this poor old couple! Probably didn’t have the coppers to pay for carriage to their destination, meant to camp out tonight, and were separated in the fog! We’ll bring both these poor souls to the Inn.” And so they did.

Squire Nickerson made suitable arrangements for food and lodging at the Inn. The old gentleman and lady were put to bed in a fine room, and orders left by the Squire to give them a good breakfast. Leaving extra money with the innkeeper for the two sleepers, and brimming over with self-satisfaction of a good deed well done, Squire Nickerson drove to his home, leaving his newly acquired but unconscious friends snoring peacefully side by side, and never dreaming that there was a possibility that he had joined a pair whom convention and law had not made one.

The fact was, the old man and the old woman were perfect strangers to one another, and their being found in similar situations was purely coincidental. Seth, who by now you know was the old gentleman in question, was very accustomed to spending the night wherever he might be, and Sophie, the lady in the picture, traveling by stage from Boston, had become annoyed and frightened at the antics of a rather tipply driver, and under the impression that it was but a few short miles to Orleans, had left the stage and started to walk. When found by the Squire, she had just stopped at the side of the road to rest, and had fallen into a deep and sound sleep.

And so passed the night. The newly united pair snored and wheezed peacefully beside one another until the early sunlight broke into the room to disclose the shocking and amazing situation. Sophie was the first to awake, stirred from sleep by a sound she had never heard before--that of a man snoring.

Imagine the consternation of the proper spinster when she awoke to find herself side by side in a strange bed with a man! Where she was, or how she got there, she didn’t know. It was clear that she was in bed with a man, and that was an event that had never happened to her before, and undoubtedly never would. She let out a scream that would wake the dead. Old Seth mumbled in his sleep, opened one eye, and then sat bolt upright in bed, staring at Sophie, who, cowering at the bed post, with purple face and tight shut eyes, screamed with the continuous wail of a fire siren. First shock turned to dumb amazement. Sophie stopped her caterwauling and turned her head toward Seth, who by now fully awake, sat frozen with apprehension. She sat bolt upright on one side of the bed, he on the other and, with eyes riveted on one another, and there they sat, transfixed with amazement and shock.

“Madame,” began Seth, remembering his manners even in a situation such as this one, “My name is--”

“Make me an honest woman, you wretch!” cried Sophie, interrupting Seth loudly. It had at last struck her that this was some monster of a man who had succeeded in some horrible design upon her honor. “Make me an honest woman, villain that you are, or I will be the death of you!”

Meanwhile, attracted by Sophie’s first screams, the other occupants of the Inn were peeping in at the door where they saw this amazing scene:

An elderly lady, keeping up a continuous stream of gesticulations, vindictive assertions and loud pleas for aid, was busily dressing herself more suitably for a meeting with a stranger. And in bed, cowering and trembling, and attempting to interject the lady’s hollers, an old man valiantly denied any knowledge of what had occurred.

The Innkeeper at last interfered with the authority of his station. On inquiry, it was found that no breach had been made that could not be easily repaired. Even when told the true story, Sophie would not keep still. The old gentleman, Seth, was then asked if he had any objections to taking his fair bedfellow for a helpmate during the remainder of this life. What else could he do? He stammered out his consent as well as he could, the enraged virgin smoothed down her anger and ruffled feathers, since satisfaction had been made to her injured honor. The bargain was made, a gay but strained pre-nuptial breakfast was held at the Inn, and the happy pair were bundled off to church, amidst the laughing shouts of the strange bridal party and uninvited guests. There the parson waited to make good a match too precipitously formed by the charitable Squire who never knew the outcome of his good deed.

... The Orleans Lamplighter

At Rock Harbor lived the old lamplighter of Orleans, Josh Northrup, who took the job when the good ladies of the church--The Sewing Circle and Female Samaritan Society--organized the Orleans Street Lighting Club.

For years Josh was a familiar figure, making his rounds up and down the streets with his ladder, oil, and matches. Josh listened with a philosophical nod to all the complaints of the townsfolk, and was often heard to sigh:

“I’d start on one end of my beat quite a while before dark and folks around there would get all set up by the spectacle of me burning oil before sundown. By the time I reached the other end, it was after dark, and durned if the fools down that end didn’t kick cuz they weren’t getting their money’s worth.”

The lamplighter’s set of rules decreed that the lights were not to be lit on what the calendar called a “moonlight night” whether the moon could be seen or not. Thus the most dangerous time to be strolling along the streets was apt to be on a scheduled moonlight night, for Josh always stuck religiously to the calendar.

... The Giant of Longnook Valley