Part 10

"The way I rubbed Rackshaw, Ikey Dimock an' Joe Preston, eh?" Abner asked.

"That's what I mean. It makes the sparks fly, an' soon there's a big fire which is hard to put out."

"What de ye expect me to do, then?"

"Rub people the other way, fer instance, and see how it'll work."

"Ho, ho," and Abner laughed outright. "Imagine me rubbin' Ikey Dimock an' Rackshaw, an' pattin' 'em on the back an' callin' 'em 'me dear friends.' No, I guess I'm too old a bird fer that. Never had the trainin', ye see. Anyway, it's no use now; it's too late. Everybody's dead set aginst me, an' is tryin' to do me."

"Everybody is not, Abner. I'm not, anyway, or else I wouldn't have taken all the trouble to walk to town to git ye out of jail."

"Sure, sure, I know you'd stand by me, Zeb. But, say, how did ye do it?"

"Do what?"

"Git me out of jail, of course."

"Oh, bailed ye out, that was all."

"But where did ye git the money?"

"Never mind where I got it. That's my own business, so don't say anythin' more about it."

Abner was silent for a few minutes as he plodded along.

"Say," he presently began, "does Tildy an' the gals know about this?"

"Can't say fer sure," was the reply. "But I don't believe they do. I jist heard of it by chance, but I never said a word to ye'r folks."

"That's good of ye, Zeb." And once more Abner became silent.

The night was dark, and when the men were about a mile from their homes it began to rain, first a gentle drizzle, then a steady downpour. They hastened their steps, but the roads became muddy and slippery, which made progress slow.

"Say, Zeb," Abner at length panted, "an' ye really think I need a change of heart?"

"Don't ye think so ye'rself?" was the evasive reply. "Is this rain softenin' ye up? It is me, at any rate, an' I'm gittin' soaked."

"But how kin I begin the change, Zeb?"

"Guess ye'll have to work out that sum ye'rself, Abner, if it's not too hard."

"Now, that's jist the trouble. It is too hard. Ye see, me ancestors are to blame. They were all fightin' men, an' so that spirit has come down to me."

"H'm," Zeb sniffed. "The trouble with you is that ye've chosen ye'r own ancestors."

"Chosen me own ancestors! How could a man do that?"

"Easy enough. Ye've got a quarrelsome spirit, Abner, an' ye naturally choose sich dead men as suit ye. Ye kin go to the past fer anythin', it seems t' me, jist as people go to the Bible to find what agrees with their way of thinkin'. Now, isn't that so?"

"But what am I to do, Zeb?"

"Think of men who have followed peace instead of war; men who have served their country an' sacrificed themselves. If ye kin do that, perhaps ye'll git their spirit, which, in my opinion, will do ye a great deal of good."

"Mebbe ye'r right, Zeb," Abner agreed. "But darn it all, I don't know nuthin' about men of peace who sacrificed themselves fer others. I've already sacrificed much fer Glucom by lookin' after Joe Preston. If that wasn't a good deed fer the welfare of the community, then I'd like to know what it was."

"But ye'r heart wasn't right, Abner," Zeb explained. "There was anger there, an' when ye knocked Joe out ye never thought of the public good, but of ye'r own personal injury. That's not the way. Git them good ancestors to work, then ye'll know what I mean, an' ye'll begin to rub people the right way. Life will be much more pleasant, see if it isn't."

"Good ancestors, rubbin' people the right way," Abner muttered, as he plodded along. "I'd like to know how to begin, skiddy-me-shins if I wouldn't."

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*A MOIST RECEPTION*

Abner was somewhat uneasy as to the reception he would be likely to receive at home. What would his wife say about the two waifs he had sheltered for the night and the ruined pillow-slips? Judging from past experiences, he felt quite sure that a lively time lay ahead of him, and he knew that he would need the combined spirits of all his peace-loving ancestors to aid him in keeping calm.

Thinking of such things, he walked slowly to the back door after he had parted from Zeb at the gate. He had no idea what time of the night it was, though he was sure that it was late, for the house was wrapped in complete darkness. He decided to slip in unnoticed and occupy the sofa in the kitchen for the night. And glad would he be to rest, for he was very tired after such a trying day and his long walk home.

Reaching the back door, he gently tried the latch, but it was firmly secured from within. He had partly expected this, as he knew how particular his wife was about fastening the doors before going to bed. She had often told about a robbery which had once taken place at a certain house because the back door had been left open. Abner thought she might have departed from her strict rule for this night, at least, in case of his return. It annoyed him to think how little his absence was considered by his own family.

Failing to find an entrance here, he at once remembered the window in the woodshed.

"Lucky fer me," he mused, "that I didn't fix that winder. That's a time when I was right, an' I won't fergit to remind Tildy of it, neither."

It was so dark that he made considerable noise as he walked around the end of the woodshed. He tripped over a pail, and when he had with difficulty recovered himself, the clothes-line, which had been drawn taut by the rain, caught him under the chin, and gave his head such a jerk that he was sure his neck was cracked. These mishaps by no means sweetened his temper, but he managed to restrain his feelings so far as speech was concerned, though, as he afterwards expressed it, he was "bilin' within."

It took him several minutes to find the window, and this he accomplished by feeling his way along the side of the building. When his hands at length reached the opening, which was about up to his shoulders, he gave a spring, caught his elbows upon the sill and pulled himself up. This was somewhat hard to do as Abner's body almost filled the opening. After two or three frantic wriggles he progressed far enough to balance himself upon his stomach upon the sill. Another wriggle and he would be through. But just at this critical juncture there was a sudden movement within the shed, a rush was heard, and then a flood of cold water was dashed into his face. With a half-smothered yell of surprise Abner recoiled, and ere he could regain himself, he lost his balance and fell sprawling upon the ground.

For a few seconds he lay there puzzled and half dazed. What did it all mean? he asked himself. Who could be in the woodshed at that hour of the night? Why had the water been thrown into his face? Then the terrible thought flashed into his mind that something must have happened to his family, that robbers might be in control of the house, who had committed some terrible deed. The silence of the house lent color to this suspicion, and a wild fury filled Abner's soul. He scrambled to his knees, then to his feet. He would teach the villains a lesson they would not soon forget. They would not escape his wrath, and he must be quick.

Hurrying around the building as fast as possible, he reached the door, and was about to force it open, when the sound of splashing water fell upon his ears, accompanied by a heavy thump upon the floor, as if somebody had fallen. Instantly a woman's wild shriek rent the air, mingled with children's cries of distress. Certain now that something was seriously wrong within, Abner put his shoulder to the door, which immediately gave way with a crash. This only tended to cause the cries and shrieks to grow louder than ever, and Abner was completely confused by the din. He could see nothing, and he did not know which way to step. He felt around through the blackness, but could touch nothing.

"Shet up ye'r yellin'," he roared, "an' tell me what's the matter."

This command had the desired effect, for the babel lessened.

"Abner, oh, Abner, is that you?" came a voice from his left, which he recognized as belonging to his wife.

"Sure, it's me," was the reply. "What in the divil does all this mean?"

"I thought you were a pack of robbers," Mrs. Andrews moaned. "Get a light, quick; I'm afraid I've killed one of the boys."

As Abner turned toward the kitchen a light suddenly illumined the darkness. Jess was coming, carrying a lamp in her hand, closely followed by Belle. Both girls were clad in their dressing-gowns, and their faces were white with fear.

"Daddy, daddy, what is the matter?" Jess asked.

"Look out, there, ye'll let that lamp fall," Abner warned. "Give it to me. My, ye're tremblin' all over."

"Oh, tell me what has happened," Jess pleaded. "Is anybody killed?"

"Sounds like somethin's dyin'," Abner replied, as he took the lamp from the girl's trembling hand and turned the light upon the shed. As he did so he saw a peculiar sight. Lying on the floor, with her back to the wall, was his wife, with an expression of misery depicted upon her face. On each side of her was a little boy, hopelessly entangled in the bed-clothes, and with wide staring eyes, filled with wonder and terror. Near by he saw three other little chaps also awake, and watching all that was taking place.

"What's the meaning of this?" Abner demanded. "An' what's all that water doin' on the floor? There's as much there as there is on me an' down me neck."

Mrs. Andrews made no reply. She seemed to be greatly overcome. At once Jess stooped down and put her arms around her mother's shoulders.

"Mother dear, are you sick?" she asked. "Let me help you up. Something dreadful must have happened. Come into the kitchen."

Breathing heavily and moaning, Mrs. Andrews was rescued from her lowly position, assisted into the kitchen, and placed upon a chair.

"I'm afraid I'm dying," the woman moaned. "I never had such a fright in all my life. It was worse than the auto."

"She's luney," Abner remarked. "Her brain's turned. Better git the smellin'-salts, Jess; they'll bring her to."

"My brain's not turned," was the emphatic and unexpected protest. "You're luney yourself, Abner Andrews, and everybody knows it. What do you mean by prowling about the house at this time of night, scaring people out of their wits?"

"An' what do people mean by sleepin' in the woodshed?" Abner retorted. "How did I know ye was there with a hull bunch of kids."

"They're some of yours, though, Abner. I have as much right to bring children into this house as you have. You needn't think that you run this place."

Abner was about to make a strong sarcastic reply, when he suddenly thought of his peaceful ancestors, and checked himself just in time.

"There now, me love," he replied in his most affable manner, "I know I don't run this place, an' never did. You run it so well, Tildy, that I wouldn't dare to interfere."

Abner felt quite proud of this effort, and smiled broadly upon his wife, expecting her to be astonished at these words. In this, however, he was disappointed. Mrs. Andrews was in no mood for soft words, and she viewed him critically from head to foot.

"Have you been drinking, Abner?" she asked. "Is that why you are so late coming home?"

"Drinkin'! Good Lord!" Abner gasped. "What makes ye think that I have, Tildy?"

"By the way you've acted ever since you came home. You first tramped around the house as if you were afraid to come in, and scared me most to death, and now you get off a whole lot of senseless nonsense. I never heard the like of it."

"No, I guess ye ain't used to sich things, Tildy. I've been in the habit of sayin' pretty nasty things, but I've had a change of heart, ye see, an' that makes the difference."

"A change of heart!"

"Sure," and Abner stroked his chin and smiled.

"Have you been to a revival meeting in town?" his wife demanded.

"No, not as bad as that. But I've had a change of heart, all right, an' I'm havin' a wonderful experience. I see all me good ancestors a-hoverin' over me head, smilin' an' breathin' upon me peaceful spirits. Oh, it's great! Don't ye wish you felt like that, Tildy? I think a new heart 'ud do you good, too."

"What I need is a new husband," was the scornful reply.

"But ye have a new husband, Tildy. He's come back to ye from the pit of destruction. He's changed, I tell ye, an' his heart is like the heart of a little child."

"And as simple, why don't you say? I'd like to know what's come over you."

"An' I'd like to know what's happened to you, Tildy. Why were ye sleepin' out in the woodshed? Were ye mournin' so much over me that ye couldn't stay in the old bed where we've slept fer years? Guess ye've got a warm spot in ye'r heart fer me after all, haven't ye?"

"It wasn't for your sake I was sleeping in the woodshed," Mrs. Andrews explained, "but to look after those children."

"Oh, I see; an' ye armed ye'rself with pails of water, eh?"

"I certainly did, as you should know."

Abner glanced down at his wet clothes and smiled.

"What happened to the other pail, Tildy?"

"I tripped over it; that's what I did."

"And landed upon the kids, ho, ho."

"Is it anything to laugh at? I might have killed the poor little things."

"Sure, sure, ye might, Tildy. It's nuthin' to laff at, oh, no. I shouldn't laff at anythin' like that when I've had a change of heart, should I? De ye think me good ancestors 'ud act that way?"

While this conversation was going on, Jess and Belle were attending to the children, soothing their fears and arranging the disordered bed-clothes. They had overheard the animated talk, nevertheless, and it amused them. They looked upon the whole affair as a joke when they knew that no harm had been done. Belle, especially, enjoyed the fun. It was the first real family scene of this kind she had witnessed since coming to Ash Point, although Jess had often told her that she might expect it at any time, but not to be at all alarmed when it did happen. They came back into the kitchen just as Abner was speaking about his peaceful ancestors.

"Don't you think you should go to bed, daddy?" Jess asked. "That seems to me to be the best way to settle all disputes to-night."

"Indeed, I do," Abner agreed, "'specially fer a man who wants to imbibe the spirits of his ancestors."

"I'm still convinced that you've been imbibing Tom Grogan's spirits," Mrs. Andrews replied. "Why, I can smell it on your breath, can't you, Jess?"

"I guess ye'r wrong this time, Tildy. Ye've never smelled the spirits of me ancestors, not by a jugful."

"Indeed, I haven't, and I hope to goodness I never shall," his wife retorted. "But get away to bed, all of you."

"I'm goin' to watch them kids fer the rest of the night," Abner announced.

"No, you're not," his wife declared. "I couldn't trust you with them. I've undertaken the job for to-night, and I intend to carry it through, so, away with you all, and let me get some rest."

Abner at once started off, humming as he went:

"When Bill Larkins made his money."

Mrs. Andrews and the girls watched him until he had disappeared. Then they looked at one another with wondering eyes. Jess was the first to speak.

"I'm afraid there's something wrong with daddy," she whispered.

"I'm sure of it," her mother replied. "He's either luney, or he's been drinking."

But Belle laughed at them.

"You needn't worry about him," she declared. "He's neither crazy nor drunk. He has more sense left than most men. It's only his way."

"Which way? I'd like to know," and Mrs. Andrews sighed. "He's had so many ways since we've been married that I don't know which way you mean."

"That may be so, Mrs. Andrews, but I believe this way is a good one, so we must not worry."

"Let us hope so," was all that Mrs. Andrews said. Nevertheless, she found it hard to get to sleep again, for she knew her husband better than either of the girls.

*CHAPTER XIX*

*JERRY, ME PARDNER*

It was late when Abner awoke the next morning. This was a most unusual thing for him, and he felt annoyed at himself as he hurriedly dressed and hastened downstairs. The house seemed to be deserted. He glanced at the clock, and was surprised to find that it was a quarter to nine. His breakfast was all ready on the table, but no one was to be seen. A copy of _The Live Wire_ lying by his plate arrested his attention.

"Some class to this," he remarked, half aloud, as he unfolded the paper. "Jist like a hotel; breakfast waitin', an' the mornin' paper right at hand. Reg'lar Waldorf-Astoria style. Hello! what in time----!"

His eyes had caught sight of the big headlines, and he saw his own name prominently displayed along with Joe Preston's. It was a great write-up, and Abner read it through to the bitter end. It told of his savage attack upon the editor, how he looked and acted, and of his arrest and confinement in jail. Then followed a description of his life's history, which ended by saying that he had been looked upon as dangerous for some time. It was really believed by many that, owing to his peculiar actions, he was not altogether in his right mind. The incident of his offering one thousand dollars toward the Orphanage was mentioned, and how he did not have enough money to pay even five dollars, let alone the whole amount. Not a word was said in his favor. He was painted in the darkest colors, and it was suggested that he should either be placed in the Asylum as a lunatic, or in the Penitentiary as a most dangerous character.

A peculiar expression overspread Abner's face as he finished reading. He laid the paper aside and began his breakfast. When he was through, he filled his pipe and walked out of the house. The rain had ceased in the night, but the air was damp and heavy. It was a gloomy morning, and accorded perfectly with the state of his mind. He heard the voices of the children in the barn and knew that the girls were with them. It was the best place to play on a day such as this. He had no mind to join them, as he wished to be alone in order to think.

He stood for a few minutes near the woodshed, looking down upon the river, over which drifted a heavy mist. He longed to be out there in the Flying Scud, away from all land-lubbers. It was the life to which he was especially fitted. Picking up his axe, which was lying by the chopping-block, he threw it over his shoulder and walked rapidly toward the shore. There was considerable drift-wood to be gathered, and he generally spent wet days at this work. He needed something to do, and in wrestling with the roots, logs, and blocks he could give physical vent to his pent-up feelings.

His row-boat was pulled up on the beach, and his small canoe, used for muskrat and duck shooting, was lying bottom up among the bushes. He was tempted to launch the latter, cross to the island and spend the day there. Any place was preferable to remaining near home where he knew that ere long he must submit to a regular bombardment of questions. He wondered what had become of his wife. It was a most unusual thing for her to be absent from home at this time of the morning. He could see the house plainly from where he stood on the shore, and he occasionally turned and looked in that direction. Abner was well aware that he should go to town for Jerry, but he was in no mood for the long walk over the muddy roads. He would need the horse for haying as soon as the weather cleared.

"Confound it all!" he growled. "I don't want to see that town agin fer a long time. I'm sick of it. Why can't people leave me alone, anyway? They'll all read that piece in the paper, an' they'll think I'm the biggest villain on the face of the hull earth. I wonder how Zeb would act if he'd been rubbed the wrong way most of his life sich as I have. Peaceful ancestors, be blowed!"

In order to express his feelings he started to work, and every blow of the axe was not only upon log or block, but upon his enemies. This violent exercise did him a great deal of good, and he mentally compared the joy of being in the fresh air with the stuffy and unsavory jail.

After an hour of such work he felt in a better frame of mind. He had put all of his enemies to flight and was the victor. There was joy in the feeling, and his face wore a more benign expression when he at length paused, seated himself upon a log, and began to re-fill his pipe. He thus sat looking out over the water, thinking of his previous day's experiences, and of what Zeb had to say about his peaceful ancestors. At times he felt that his neighbor was right, but the spirits of his war-like ancestors had been with him for so long that he found it most difficult to rid himself of their influence.

"It's a darn hard thing to shake off old friends," he muttered. "It's 'specially hard when ye'r in sympathy with 'em, an' want to do jist as they did. They've stood by me fer many a year now, an' their words an' actions have allus jibed with mine. I wonder if me peaceful ancestors will see eye to eye with me. That's the pint Zeb didn't take into consideration. If I've got to trim me sails to their gentle actions I'm afraid I'll land in the lunatic asylum fer sure."

He was aroused from his meditation by a step behind him, and looking quickly around, he saw a man approaching but a few yards away. The presence of this stranger annoyed Abner. What right had anyone to creep upon him that way? he asked himself.

But the visitor was by no means daunted by Abner's surly expression. He came jauntily forward, and held out a big fat hand.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Andrews," he accosted. "Having a quiet time here all by yourself, I see. Beautiful spot, isn't it?"

"Is it?" Abner sullenly asked, as he viewed the man most carefully. He did not like his looks, and he believed him to be an agent, who wished to sell him apple-trees.

"It's the finest place I've seen in a long time," the man replied. "And look at that wood! I suppose you get your winter's supply here. You are fortunate. We in the city have to buy ours, while the Lord casts yours right at your door."

"You come from the city, eh?" Abner queried.

"Oh, yes. Have lived there all my life, though I do long to spend the rest of my days in the country, away from all bustle and confusion, and live the quiet life."

"To pile drift-wood and do sich jobs, I s'pose?"

"Yes, that would be a pleasure. Good for the appetite."

"Think ye'd make enough to eat on this place?" Abner asked.

"I'm sure I could. Why, all you farmers have to do is to go into the garden, for your supplies, and to the shore for your fuel, while we in the city have to pay for such things."

Abner felt like kicking this fellow and telling him in no uncertain language what a fool he was. But he thought of his peaceful ancestors and so changed his mind.

"Yes, ye'r quite right, Mister," he drawled. "We do have a great time here in the bush. Lots to eat in the summer time fer nuthin'. An' in the winter it's jist the same. We eat icicles fer breakfast, warmed-up snow fer dinner, an' fer supper we have a slice off one of them cedar blocks there. Ye see, them sticks have been floatin' so long in the river that they have a fishy smell, an' when a piece is fried in molasses, why, ye couldn't tell it from the finest lake trout. Did ye ever try one?"

"I certainly never did," the stranger smilingly replied. "It must be rather hard to digest, isn't it?"

"Oh, we don't use our digesters in the winter time. We lay 'em away in the cellar until spring. It's great how they work then, after a good long rest."

"I see you're quite a humorist, Mr. Andrews," and again the visitor smiled. "Life in the country is conducive to humor, I suppose?"