Part 8

Once I began to look at the woman I could not keep from staring at her. She was ragged, wrinkled and unwashed. The clothes that covered her back, all bent and misshapen, were tattered and torn. Her leathery face was deeply seamed and drawn. The queer sound that attracted my attention as she came up, was made by her shoes, which were large, not mates, and without strings. They slipped up and down upon her naked heels and made the “slick-slack,” “slick-slack” noise, so familiar to the country boy who has plowed in his father’s cast-off brogans, several numbers too large for his feet.

The woman was pathetic-looking, her crestfallen face was partially hid from me by an antiquated, dilapidated, weather-beaten split bonnet. Every garment she wore was a misfit and threadbare.

I felt myself drawn to this poverty-stricken creature. In order that I might find out something about her, I engaged her in conversation before she could wheel and escape.

“Are you going fishing?” I asked.

“No,” she answered pleasantly; “I came down to see if I could see my old man. He is fishing.”

“Do you live here?”

“Yes. We have lived in this town thirty-odd years; me and my old man.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“Well, he fishes now. He is getting so old and feeble that he cannot do anything else. When young and strong, he worked on a freight boat on the river, but his health failed about ten years ago, and we have had a mighty hard time since. I have actually seed the time that we did not have enough to eat. He is proud, and would not beg. He fishes, while I tries to make a little money washing and sewing, but he will not let me work much.”

“Have you any children?”

“No, sir, Mister; God never gave us any, and I expect it is best. We are so poor they might have a hard time. Me and him are all of the two families left. He is the only person that I have to look to and he is good to me. He does his best, and God will not forget him for it.”

“Do you own a home?”

“No, sir. We have nothing but a little bit of furniture. We live in a rented house and the man who owns it could put us out to-night, but he is a Christian and would not do it. We have paid no rent in six years. We just can’t; that’s the reason. But it won’t be long now, for my old man is getting weak--weaker day by day. He can’t live much longer, and when he goes I hope that I may go too. We have been together forty-odd years, and in death I pray that God will not part us.

“The Lord has been good to us. We get comfort from the Bible.

“We don’t see anybody nowadays; we go nowhere, and nobody comes to see us. The friends we had in more prosperous days have deserted us; there is nothing about us to attract people. Some seem to shun us through fear that we may beg, but never, never; we would starve first. My old man is too proud to beg. I live in fear that he may get so feeble that he cannot go and that we will have nothing. He often says that he hopes he will die some night after fishing all day. If he does, I want to go too.”

“Do you ever go to church?”

“No, Mister; we haven’t been in goin’ on ten years. We have no fit clothes. The churches look too fine inside for our old rags, but we read our old Bible every Sunday. We can’t read much now; our eyes are bad; but we get much comfort out of the Good Book.

“The Church folks don’t ever come to see us. They don’t need us, as we ain’t got no money to give. I guess when we die some good preacher will say a word over our graves; I don’t know.”

This said, the old woman moved on toward the river, craning her neck as she went, so that she could see to the right of a clump of trees that stood near the water, looking for her husband, but she must not have seen him, for she soon passed back on her way home.

Becoming interested in what she said, I made up my mind to remain there till the old gentleman arrived and look him over. I had a long wait, for it was almost dark when his little boat hove in sight. His wife had been back and looked up the river several times. She seemed lonely, restless and uneasy.

I felt sorry for the old woman, but was afraid to say so. It was, as she said, a bitter fight for existence. The aged pair had no associates, and actually suffered from poverty.

The last time she came to the landing she carried in her arms a tiny, toothless, starved dog.

“Is that your pet?” said I, anxious to reopen the conversation.

“Yes, he’s nearly twenty-two years old, and has been ours since a pup.”

“He is very old,” I declared, for the want of something better.

“Yes; and blind, and toothless.”

“Why do you keep him?”

“For what he has been. It would be cruel to kill him or desert him now, when he cannot take care of himself. I shall keep him until he dies, unless I go first. When he was younger he kept me company, and guarded our little home, when my old man was down the river for days and nights at a time, and now, if God spares me, I will see him through. I have to make a sort of soup for him to eat, and guide his footsteps. I do not think he is here for much longer; he is getting very thin and frail.”

She let him down on the ground by her side, and said: “Fido, do you love your mistress?” and the grateful little brute shook his tail.

The wife was not there when the husband came; though I had never seen him before I knew him when he landed. His face was haggard and worn, and his body emaciated. Some disease preyed at his vitals. His constitution was gone, but the blazing fire of pride still burned in his gray eyes. The will and the spirit were there. He had a fair string of fish, and after eating the smaller ones would have enough left to bring twenty-five cents.

Having tied his boat, he shouldered his tackle, took up his fish, and climbed the hill past me. I did not see his eyes searching for the faithful wife who had four times come to greet him; this lack of care I did not like. He seemed too indifferent. Possibly he was disappointed when his old companion was not there to meet him, not knowing that she had come and gone time after time. He dragged his weary limbs over the brow of the hill, and toward the city. As he went by, I had a good opportunity to observe his clothes. He was not the one-gallus fellow that the politicians so often refer to, but the no-gallus one. His trousers were held up by sharp hip-bones and his shirt was decorated with vari-colored patches.

I followed the old man, until he met his wife, who was coming in a half-trot from their little cabin. The meeting was full of meaning. No word was uttered; no time lost. He looked solemn, the least bit angry, and she smiled, a bitter sad smile, and turned and followed him. Her eyes were on the fish, giving them a cash valuation.

All of this passed without a sound from either.

That night, after I had enjoyed a good meal, to gratify my curiosity I walked by the home of the lonely couple, and found them enjoying a pipe of tobacco each. The little dog was there, on the top step between them, and they were apparently happy.

As I moved on, I said to myself: “I wonder how it would feel to be penniless, friendless, decrepit and old, but too proud to beg?”

May fortune smile on the old fisherman, his loyal helpmeet and their little dog!

UNCLE GEORGE AND THE ENGLISHMAN

The summer season was in full blast at Lake Toxaway. Hundreds of Southerners and scores of others were there, enjoying the invigorating climate, the cooling breezes, and the open-air pastimes--golf, tennis, fishing, horseback riding, and rowing. For weeks the weather had been fair and fine, and the beautiful and popular resort, in the Blue Ridge, teemed with vivacious visitors, who romped on the lake, in the woods, and along the roads by day and danced, played cards and other indoor games, and chatted in the evenings, making merry fifteen hours a day.

Among the guests at Toxaway Inn was an Englishman, a Mr. Ferrier, who had come to North Carolina in search of rare beetles. To the other guests of the fashionable hostelry Ferrier was a freak--a bug hunter--who, although he mixed but rarely with the crowd, was well known to all by his tall, lanky form, his long stride, and energetic and positive air, on account of which he had incurred, without his knowledge, the dislike of many who came in touch with him. Wherever he went he left the impression that he believed England was the only place fit for a decent person to live.

Captain James Brusard, proprietor of the inn, would not have tolerated Ferrier, with his whims and kicks, had he not been one of his most profitable guests, occupying an expensive room, for which he paid an exorbitant price. The Englishman was liberal with his money, but his manner, which to the average Southerner seemed surly and uncivil, made him disagreeable to those with whom he came in contact, especially the easy-going, indolent servants, most of whom were oldtime negroes, such as had been with the Brusards for more than half a century. The excellent fare, carefully selected and well cooked, the exhilarating atmosphere, the refreshing water and the wealth of insects and flowers pleased him very much, but hilarious pleasure-seekers, and the indifferent negroes riled him. The pretty, elegantly-dressed women, with their merry chatter, did not appeal to him.

“Bugs! Bugs!! Nothing but bugs!” was his cry.

“I never seed sich a man since I been born,” said Uncle George, the head porter. “We ain’t got nuthin’ dat suits him. Whenever I see him comin’, wid dat baskit on his arm, an’ dat single-bar’l glass on his eye, den I knows some trouble’s on de way.”

Ferrier, much to the joy of his fellow lodgers, spent most of his time in the woods, hunting insects. Every sunny day he would leave bright and early and stay away until late in the afternoon, sometimes tramping ten or twelve miles and back between suns. Natives, as well as visitors, soon became interested in him and his work, but no one ever sought him out to interrogate him, or to converse with him. His demeanor was forbidding, yet he never intentionally affronted any one. To the few he made up to he was very affable and likable. He meant well, but his neighbors could not become accustomed to his brusqueness.

The Toxaway country abounds in deer, grouse and trout. During the busy season, sportsmen bring in many trophies of the hunt. Ferrier, if one were to judge from his conversation, was an authority on game. In talking of the catch or kill of the North Carolina fishermen or hunters, he would speak slightingly, and this, more than any other thing, made him unpopular.

“I ’clar’ ’fo’ Gawd,” said Uncle George, one day, “ain’t we got nuthin’ as good as whut dey’s got in Englan’?”

Robert Brusard, son of the Captain, caught a very large trout, brought it home and exhibited it in front of the hotel, and one after another declared that it was the finest fish of the kind he had ever seen, but when Ferrier saw it he shook his head, and said: “Yes, yes, that is a big trout, but we have larger ones than that in England.” When a grouse was shown he made about the same comparison, and a deer, always giving his country the best of it. This kept up until every American in the community was _mad_ at Ferrier.

“Ef I live, so hep me Gawd, I’ll git somefin’ bigger dan whut dey’s gut in Englan’,” declared Uncle George, the boss of all the darkies. “I sho’ is gwine to git even wid dat man.

“When Marse Robert go out here an’ ketch de bigges’ trout dat de oles’ men in dese parts ever seed, den come ’long dat man, wid his single-bar’l eyeglass, slap it up to his face, an’ ’low: ‘Yes, dat’s er putty big fish, but dey’s gut bigger ones dan dat in Englan’.’ I don’t say much, fur I ain’t never been dare. But dat ain’t all. No, sir, he don’t stop den, but des keep on an’ on.

“De yudder day, when Marse Jim killed dat grouse--I believe dat’s whut dey call it, but it look des lak a sho’ nuff ole speckle hen to me--an’ fetch it here, all whut see it, ’cepin’ dat Englishman, say dat it’s de bigges’ bird uv de kind in all de lan’, I wondered whut he gwine to say. Yes, sir, I des wonder whut he gwine to say. But I ain’t hafter wonder long, fur he come ’long, steppin’ two yards at a time, an’ stop, an’ put on dat single-bar’l eyeglass, an’ look down at de grouse. I helt my breaf until he say: ‘Yes, yes, dat’s er putty big bird, but dey’s gut bigger grouse dan dat in Englan’.’

“Dat wuz too much. I des gut right sick when he say it. An’ no longer dan de day befo’, right dare in de back yard, he say dat de deer whut de gemmun frum Atlanty kilt wuz er big one, but not as big as de ones dey have in Englan’.”

One afternoon, not long after the deer incident, the old negro was fishing in Horseshoe River, at the foot of the mountain, when he saw another fisherman catch a mud turtle, or cooter, as the natives called it. At the sight of the wriggling thing, a happy thought came to Uncle George.

“I sho’ will trade fur dat cooter an’ git even wid de Englishman,” said he. “Yes, sir; dat’s des whut I’ll do.”

Going up to the man who had landed the turtle, George asked: “Say, boss, how’ll you swap dat tuckle fur some fish?”

“I’ll trade fair,” said the mountaineer.

“Well, I’m yo’ man, ef you will, fur I wants dat cooter,” declared the darkey.

“I’ll give you two trouts fur him?”

The exchange was made and George set out for home. No one knew what the negro was up to until he let a few of his friends, white and black, onto his game.

“Marse Jim, I wants you an’ Marse Robert to come roun’ to de back yard des arter dinner,” said George to Mr. Brusard.

“What are you up to, George?” asked the white man.

“Des a little fun, sir. Be sho’ an’ be dere!”

George went through the house, telling those whom he liked that he would expect them at the rear of the building that evening at half-past nine.

At the appointed hour the little yard was full of curious persons, anxious to know what sort of trick the ex-slave had on hand.

“George, what is this you are giving us?” asked young Brusard.

“Ax me no questions, an’ I’ll tell you no lies,” answered the negro.

“Marse Jim, ef you all des wait here till de Englishman go to his room den you’ll see some fun.”

“What have you done to Mr. Ferrier’s room?”

“Des evenin’, while I wuz down on Horseshoe, fishin’, I seed a mountain man ketch er tuckle, one of dese here cooters whut bites an’ holds on till it thunders, an’ I swapped fur it, brought it home an’ tuck it up dere an’ put it in dat man’s bed. Yes, sir; I slip up dere right easy lak, pull de kiver down an’ slip him in beween de sheets, so dat when Mr. Ferrier hop in he’ll hop out ergin. All you gut to do is to wait.”

A little snicker passed over the crowd.

Soon after nine the bug-hunter climbed the stairs from the office to his room, unlocked the door, struck a match and lit the candle on the table by the bed.

“Now listen,” whispered Uncle George; “he’s up dere. Did you hear him scratch de match. He won’t be dere long ’fo’ he jumps in de bed, an’ den trouble’ll begin.

“Look, look; see de light go out!

“Now listen, an’ you’ll hear him bounce in!

“Listen; hear de bed a screachin’!

“He’s in.”

“Help! Ho!” came from the window above.

“Listen!” cried the darkey.

The crowd below could hear everything. Ferrier sprung out of the bed, fell over a chair, rose to his feet, scrambled out the door, and came flying down the back way, yelling every jump.

“Help! A dog! A mad cat!”

The onlookers stood perfectly still, while Ferrier rushed into the yard, with the turtle hanging on to his night shirt.

“Take it off! Kill it!” shouted the Englishman.

“Des let him run,” whispered Uncle George.

Round and round the frightened fellow went, with the turtle swinging against his legs, now and then scratching them.

“Knock this thing off, George,” he cried to the old negro.

“Ef you’ll stop so I kin hit it widout hittin’ you,” was the reply.

Picking up a broom handle, George cracked the creature on the head and broke it loose.

“What in the name of the Lord is that, George?” asked the Briton, as he turned and gazed upon the dying turtle.

“Dat, sir, is a ’Merikin bed bug. Is you gut any in Englan’ dat kin beat it?”

SHE DIDN’T LIKE MY YELLOW SHOES

Human nature is the same the world over, and the train is the best place to get the cream of it.

The other day, while on my way from Kansas City to St. Louis, in a day coach, I lost my seat to two ladies, who, disregarding my suit case and coat, had taken possession while I was in the rear getting a drink of water. This I did not mind, as there were plenty of seats vacant. Soon after the newcomers had arrived they began to buy and eat fruit, using a time-table which I had secured and marked for my convenience, as a receptacle for the peelings and seed. This annoyed me just a little, for I could not get a fresh one until I reached the end of my journey, but I said nothing.

An hour later, after I had taken a short nap and lost the run of the stations, I desired to consult my schedule. Looking over the way, I found that the younger woman had disappeared, leaving her companion, an old lady dressed in heavy black, wearing on her head an antiquated split bonnet. Thinking of nothing but my time-table, I got up and went to where the aged traveler sat and, without much ado, reached down and picked it up. My intention was to steal away unobserved, so that the woman would not feel called upon to offer an apology for taking my seat, but I was foiled. As I lifted the book a cold, bony, clammy hand shot from beneath a black sleeve and fastened my wrist with a vice-like grip. The turn was so sudden and so unexpected that I lost my equilibrium.

“My time-table, good lady, is all that I want,” said I, as meekly as possible.

“It’s mine,” was the sharp reply, the hand closing on my wrist.

“I beg your pardon, madam, but I have carried that folder for two days.”

“You hain’t no sich thing, fur I got it this mornin’.”

“I do not like to dispute your word, madam, but I left this book on this seat and it was here when you came this morning.”

“You’re just a tellin’ what ain’t so, an’ I don’t lak to be meddled wid by no man wid yaller shoes.”

“O, I see it is my shoes you do not like!”

“No, I don’t lak you ner none lak you. What you got on that long thing fur?”

I wore a long automobile coat, or duster, to protect my clothes, and the old lady did not like that. Seeing what a tempest I had stirred, I decided to fight it out just for fun.

“Madam, you wouldn’t mind my taking my suit case out of here so that you could have more room for your feet?”

“No. It hain’t got no bizness in here nohow.”

“Why, my dear, I know it hasn’t,” said I.

“I ain’t none of your dear, an’ don’t you call me that nuther.”

“Pardon me, sister, but I meant to be pleasant to you.”

“I wouldn’t choose any of your pleasantness. It’s just lak you drummer chaps. I’ve heard of your doin’s before.”

She thought I was a knight of the grip, and feared that I would flirt with her. That was interesting.

“My coat--that’s it hanging there above your head, where I put it before you took my seat.”

“’Tain’t your seat! How come it your seat?”

“I am not claiming it, mother, but just explaining how my coat got there--that’s all. No, it is your seat by the right of possession, and I should not ask you to move if I had to hang on the bell cord.”

“You make out lak you’re powerful perlite, but the way you drummers do nobudy--not even an ole woman lak me--kin tell what you’re up to.”

“I beg your pardon, madam, but I am not a drummer. I live one thousand miles from here, and am on my way home from the Democratic convention, at Denver, to see my wife and little girl. I have tried to behave myself and it grieves me to think that I offended you, but I am sure you will not say that I did it intentionally. I entered this train early this morning, at Kansas City, and picked this seat, where the sun would not shine on me, and occupied it. Later, you and your friend came in and captured it while I drank at the water cooler, and I had originally selected one that your good taste made you prefer to the many empty ones that were here when you came. That is the whole story. I wanted to see my time-table, and came for it. You took hold of my arm--something I never permit any woman but my wife to do--”

“You know that ain’t so,” declared the disputant hotly. “I never held your arm.”

“Look now, my dear, and see if you have not my wrist.”

That was the blow that killed mother, for she still held my wrist, although I had dropped the folder. Here a bit of color mounted the pale, wrinkled cheeks.

“I love to see a pretty woman blush,” said I, smiling from ear to ear.

“You shet your mouth. I ain’t blushin’! I wish my brother was here. I’d make him crack your head.”

“Your brother--where is your husband or your son?”

“I ain’t got none, as I have never been married.”

“O, I see; you are still enjoying single bliss--a charming old maid?”

“It’s none of your bizness what I am. You’ve got nuthin’ to do with me.”

Passengers several seats back and front were listening to the controversy, which had been fast and sharp, and enjoying it.

“Well, good soul, I will leave you if you will give me my time-table.”

“It’s none of yourn, but take it an’ go.”

“Not until you are convinced that it is mine.”

“It’s mine, but you kin have it.”

“Just one word? Did you write your name on your book?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, if you will look inside there you will find my name. If you do not I shall apologize and give you a basket of candy.”

“I don’t want your candy.”

“I know you don’t, but you will look for my name?”

As she opened the book and revealed the name, I said: “That’s my handwriting, as you will see by comparing it with this on my ticket.”

“Now look on page forty and see if the table from Kansas City to St. Louis is not marked.”

She was convinced that I owned the book.

“Now, madam, if you will look over there on top of your telescope you will find your table, right where you put it when you came in. I am sorry to have troubled you, and as we journey through this vale of tears if I can ever do you a turn you may call on me. I like your spunk.”

“You go on about your bizness an’ let me erlone an’ I’ll ’tend to mine. If you’ll throw them yaller shoes in the river an’ give that jimswinger to some nigger you’ll look putty decent.”

When the old damsel got up to leave the train, I hurried up, like a young gallant, grabbed up her luggage and carried it to the door before she had time to protest.

“Good-bye, sweetheart,” I shouted, as the train pulled out, and in reply she yelled: “Shet your mouth, smarty!”

AFRAID OF THE FROWZY BLONDE

“Why don’t you slide in by the frowzy blonde?” asked Sanford of Roark, who backed himself up against a seat in the first-class car, as the train came down the mountain.

“She’s like a snow peak,” said Roark. “I passed and looked longingly, but you should have seen the icy stare she handed me.”

“Yes, but when the train is crowded, as it is, she is not entitled to a whole seat,” responded Sanford. “You would be justified in scrouging in.”

“It is no question of my right,” said Roark, “but those frigid eyes took the nerve out of me. I think she’s been in cold storage.

“In beating about the country, old fellow, I have become somewhat of a physiognomist. The woman or man who holds an entire seat, in a crowded car, does so by force. Take the blonde there, why, you could not any more approach her than you could a bull dog nibbling on a bone.