Part 6

Throwing open a door to the left, Abner ushered the visitor into the parlor.

"Set right down, an' make ye'rself at home," he told her.

The woman smiled to herself as Abner left her. Then she studied the room most critically, from the old-fashioned piano to the fresh flowers in the vase upon the center-table.

"Strange that the Attorney General's daughter should be visiting here," she mused. "What an ignorant and uncouth man that farmer is. His language was most profane when he was trying to open the door."

Presently the long-drawn blast of the tin horn sounded upon her ears, and again she smiled, but it was the smile of contempt.

"How primitive," she meditated. "And to think of Miss Rivers picking berries like an ordinary country girl! I wonder if her father knows where she is, and what she is doing. I believe the Andrewses have a daughter. I suppose I must invite her, too."

In a few minutes Abner returned, sat down upon a chair near the piano, and crossed his legs.

"There, I guess that'll bring her," he remarked. "Tildy'll think the house is on fire. She's most scared to death of fire, Tildy is."

"You have a beautiful place here," and the woman glanced out of the window on her left as she spoke.

"'Tain't too bad, considerin' everythin'."

"And the view is magnificent, Mr. Andrews."

"So Ikey Dimock told me t'other day."

"Was Mr. Dimock here?"

"Yep. He called to see me when I was hoein' pertaters."

"He did! And what did he want?" The woman seemed unusually curious, and this Abner noted.

"He wanted to buy my place," he explained.

"Buy your place!"

"Yep. Wanted it as a summer place fer his family, so he said."

"Did you come to any agreement?"

"Should say not. I ain't anxious to sell, 'specially to Ikey Dimock."

"Why?"

"Oh, me an' him don't jibe; never did."

"You have known him for some time, then?"

"Should say I have. Why, I knew Ikey Dimock when he was pickin' pin-feathers off his mother's chickens when she was gittin' 'em ready fer market."

At these words the bland expression suddenly left the woman's face, and she straightened herself up haughtily in her chair.

"Mr. Dimock is of good family, so I understand," she challenged.

"'Deed he is," was Abner's unexpected agreement. "I knew Ikey's dad well, an' he was the best man I ever saw at steerin' clear of a job. Why, when he was with me on my old Flyin' Scud he spent most of his time plannin' how to git clear of his work. He surely was great at that."

"But he was honest, at any rate, was he not?" the woman asked, now visibly annoyed.

"Honest? He was the honestest man I ever sot eyes on. Why, he was so honest that he was allus tryin' to take care of his neighbors' property. Everythin' he could git his hands on he would take home. He was so honest that at last his neighbors allus kept their barns an' stables locked."

"Do you mean to tell me that he was a thief?" the woman demanded. "You seem to have a very poor opinion of him."

"Yaas, almost as poor an opinion as old Judge Watkins, who sentenced him to six months in jail fer stealin' oats from Bill Armstrong's barn. Ye kin call that anythin' ye like, but the Judge called it stealin', an' he ginerally knew what he was talkin' about."

The woman was evidently much annoyed at this candid portrayal of the elder Dimock. She glanced toward the door as if meditating a speedy departure. Abner noted this, and it amused him.

"I wonder what in time's keepin' Tildy," he remarked. "She ginerally comes home like a steam engine, pantin' an' puffin', when I blow the horn at this time of the day. I wish to goodness she'd come, fer I was never any good at entertainin' company, 'specially women."

"You have certainly entertained me in a most unexpected, and, I might add, unpleasant, manner," the woman retorted. "I am not fond of having past histories raked up. It isn't pleasant."

"I reckon it ain't, 'specially sich a one as that of the Dimock family."

"But surely you should not blame Mr. Isaac Dimock for what his father did. He, at any rate, is above reproach, and you can't bring any unworthy charge against him."

"That's true," Abner assented. "It 'ud be no use bringin' any charge aginst Ikey so long as he's hand an' glove with the Government. It 'ud only be workin' fer nuthin'. Ye couldn't ketch him, not by a jugful."

"Why, what has the Government to do with Mr. Dimock?" the woman asked in apparent surprise.

"It has a great deal to do with him, an' almost any fool could tell ye that. The Government has made Ikey Dimock jist what he is, if ye want to know the plain truth."

"It has! In what way?"

"H'm," and Abner shifted significantly. "Hasn't the Government been feedin' him with pap fer years now? Supplyin' him with big contracts fer hardware, an' givin' him great rake-offs in all sorts of government work? That's the way Ikey Dimock made his money, an' he's nuthin' more'n a chip off the old block. They called it stealin' when his dad took the oats from Bill Armstrong's barn, but now they call it 'high finance,' or some sich name. But it's stealin' jist the same. I could tell ye a few things if I had a mind to."

The woman, however, could stand no more. She had risen to her feet, her face pale, and her eyes blazing with anger.

"Do you know who I am?" she witheringly asked.

"Don't ye know ye'rself? If ye don't, how de ye expect me to?"

"I am Mrs. Isaac Dimock, that's who I am, and I shall tell my husband what you have been saying about him and his father."

"That won't be any news to Ikey; better tell him somethin' new. He knows that already."

"Why, I never had anyone talk to me in such an insolent way before," the woman protested. "I didn't come here to be insulted."

"Is tellin' the truth insultin' ye?" Abner asked, as he, too, rose to his feet. "If the truth of many things was known it 'ud be better fer all consarned. But, there, I hear the women now. I guess ye've had enough of me."

Abner slipped out of the house as speedily as possible, after telling his wife that a visitor was in the parlor. He sat down upon the wood-pile, and meditated over what had just taken place.

"Ho! ho!" he chuckled. "Her ladyship got a jolt to-day, all right. She thought I didn't know her, eh? I knew her the minute I sot eyes on her. She didn't like what I said about the Dimocks. But I could have told her somethin', too, about her own family-tree. My, wasn't she mad! Ho, ho!"

*CHAPTER XI*

*TOWN RATS*

"It seems to me, Tildy," Abner remarked, "that your breakin' into Society is somethin' like the time I broke through the ice skatin' up river."

"In what way?" Mrs. Andrews asked, as she adjusted her hat.

Abner was stretched out upon the kitchen sofa, enjoying his evening smoke, and watching his wife as she gave the final touches to her toilet.

"Well, ye see," he explained, "my breakin' through the ice was very sudden. It was as unexpected as you goin' to Mrs. Ikey Dimock's party."

"And as unpleasant, why don't you say, Abner?"

"That's jist what I was a-goin' to say, Tildy. I think your reception will be about as cool as my duckin' in the river. Mrs. Ikey is not anxious to have ye there, not by a jugful."

"Don't I know that," snapped Mrs. Andrews. "But you understand as well as I do that the girls wouldn't go without me, and so Mrs. Dimock just had to ask me. I tried to get out of going, but finally had to consent. I'm sure I shan't enjoy myself one bit."

"Jist about as much as I did out in the river, with water up to me chin, clingin' to the ice with me fingernails, an' yellin' blue-murder. I hadn't any idea the water was so deep where I went in. Gee whiz! It was easy to go in, but mighty hard to git out. Mebbe that'll be the way with you, Tildy, eh?"

"What, do you think I'll want to keep this thing up, Abner? If you do, then you're much mistaken. I'm sick of it already."

"That's all right, Tildy. I know ye've got enough common sense not to want to be a society belle at ye'r time of life. But ye see, as Mrs. Ikey has invited you to her party, she'll expect you to do somethin' in return. Society, as I understand it, is jist ordinary trade. Ye don't git things fer nuthin'. Mrs. Ikey invites you, then you must invite her, an' that's the way it goes. How does that strike ye, Tildy?"

Before Mrs. Andrews could reply, Belle and Jess entered the kitchen. Abner's eyes brightened as he saw them, and he viewed them with critical eyes.

"My, my!" he exclaimed, "you two'll cut a dash tonight fer sure. Why, all the young fellers in Glucom will be tumblin' over one another."

"So long as they don't tumble over us we won't care," Belle laughingly replied. "We're not out for conquests, are we, Jess?"

"I'm not, anyway," the latter declared. "I haven't any time or inclination to bother with such things."

Abner's eyes twinkled, and he turned to his wife.

"Guess it's up to you, Tildy, to do the grand tonight. These gals don't want any fellers. But there's the car, so yez better hustle."

Abner accompanied the women to the road, and stood watching until the car had disappeared from view.

"Well, well," he mused, "to think of Tildy goin' to a party at Mrs. Ikey Dimock's, an' in Mrs. Ikey's ear, at that! What's goin' to happen next? Wonders'll never cease."

Abner went back to the house, locked the door, and strolled over to Zeb's. He wished to discuss his big idea with his neighbor, and learn what he thought about it. He remained for over an hour, and when he at length left he was much elated. Zeb had been more reasonable than usual, and had agreed that his idea was a good one, and worth trying.

Abner had been home but a short time when he heard a noise at the back door. Then children's voices fell upon his ears, accompanied by a child's cry. Wondering what it could mean, Abner threw open the door, and peered out. It was dark, but not dark enough to prevent his seeing two little figures standing before him.

"Hello! Who in time are yez, an' what de yez want at this hour of the night?" he demanded.

"Are you our uncle?" a little voice asked.

"Uncle! Guess ye've struck the wrong spot this time. Better move on."

"But you must be our uncle," the voice insisted. "The man wot left us here said you are our Uncle Abner."

"Well, I ain't, so that's the end of it," was the curt reply.

At these words the two little creatures broke into a pitiful cry. Abner was helpless and in a quandary.

"What are we to do?" came the wailing question. "The man is gone and we're lost."

"Lost, eh? Well, come in, then, till I have a look at yez."

Quickly the children obeyed, and soon were standing in the middle of the room, two forlorn objects of distress and misery. They were boys, one about seven years of age, the other five. Their clothes were ragged and their faces looked as if they had not been washed for days. But there was something about them that appealed to Abner, whose heart was always affected by the helpless and the unfortunate. The little visitors showed no sign of fear, but stood watching Abner with big, beautiful dark eyes.

"So ye're huntin' fer ye'r uncle, eh?" Abner queried.

"Yep," the older boy replied.

"Yeth," came the other.

"Who brought yez here?"

"A man."

"A man," came the echo.

"An' he gave me this," and the boy held out a piece of soiled paper, which he had been clutching in his right hand.

Abner took the note, unfolded it, and holding it close to the light, read the following:

"Abner Andrews:

"If you are determined to have a Home at Ash Point, you can begin work at once. Here are two young town rats for your care. What do you think of them?"

That was all, and as Abner stood staring at the note, the light of comprehension dawned upon his mind. In fact he stood there so long that he forgot the waiting lads. He was aroused, however, by a light touch upon his arm, and a tired voice saying,

"We're hungry."

"We're hungry," came the response.

"Sure, sure, indeed yez must be hungry," Abner replied, as he turned quickly around. "Rats are allus hungry, but yez must git some of that scum off ye'r faces an' hands before yez eat in this house. Come over here to the sink."

After a vigorous application of soap and water, the waifs presented a more respectable appearance, and Abner stepped back and viewed them critically.

"There," he panted, "guess that'll do fer the present. But yez sartinly need a hoe an' a scrabbin-brush upon ye'r mugs. An' say, what's ye'r names?"

"Mine's Tom," the older boy replied, "an' his is Billy."

"Tom an' Billy, eh? But Tom an' Billy what? What's ye'r other names?"

"Ain't got any. Jist Tom an' Billy."

"Jith Tom an' Billy," came the echo.

"Yes, I know that. But what's ye'r mother's name?"

"Sue."

"Thue."

"Oh, git out, that's not what I want to know. What do people call her?"

"Lazy."

"Lathy."

With a sigh of despair Abner gave up the attempt to gain any more information, and went into the pantry. After he had fumbled about for some time, and knocked down a number of pans and dishes, he returned with two big slices of bread covered with butter and molasses.

"There, fall to," he ordered, "an' help ye'rselves."

The children needed no second bidding. They were ravenous, and ate more like dogs than human beings. Not until they had devoured the third helping were they satisfied, and breathed a sigh of relief. Tom wiped his sticky mouth with his coat sleeve, and Billy did likewise.

"Yez needn't paint ye'r sleeves with molasses," Abner chided. "But I guess by the look of things they're the only napkins yez ever use. Git over to the sink there, till I give yez another scrubbin'."

When the molasses had been wiped away, Tom gave a deep yawn.

"I'm sleepy," he announced.

"Theepy," lisped Billy.

"Sleepy!" Abner fairly gasped the word, as he looked helplessly around. What was he to do? He could not think of sending the waifs out into the night, and where was he to put them to sleep?

"Confound it!" he muttered. "Wish to goodness the women folks was home; they'd know what to do. Jess'd have a chance to try out her Social Service plan. Wonder what she'd do? Mebbe she'd take 'em to sleep with her."

He paused, his face brightened, and his eyes twinkled.

"Say, kids, come with me," he ordered. "I'll fix yez up fer the night. Ye'r uncle won't send yez away, not by a jugful, skiddy-me-shins, if he will."

Picking up the lamp, he strode through the dining-room into the hall-way, and up the stairs, closely followed by the boys. Reaching the top, he opened a door to the right, entered the room, and placed the lamp upon the dressing-table. Tom and Billy stared around the room with undisguised wonder, for it seemed to them like fairy-land.

"Hurry up an' strip," Abner commanded.

But alas! there was little to strip, for when the lads had removed their outer clothing, there was little underneath except rags.

"Holy smoke!" Abner exclaimed. "Is that all yez have on? Well, I declare! I can't see nuthin' but holes. But yez can't go to bed with them things on. Peel off them rags at once, while I look around fer somethin' fer yez to put on."

When the lads had obeyed and had wriggled out of their rags, Abner seized a quilt from the bed and wrapped it about their bodies.

"Jist hold that close," he ordered, "while I look around fer some duds. Let me see," and he scratched his head in perplexity. "I wonder where Tildy keeps sich things."

Going into an adjoining room, he pulled out several bureau drawers, and in a few minutes returned carrying triumphantly two spotless pillow-slips in his left hand. Replacing the lamp upon the dresser, he held the slips up for careful inspection.

"Pity to do it," he mused, "but it can't be helped."

Drawing a jackknife from his pocket, he opened it and deliberately began to cut open the end of one of the slips, and also a hole in each side.

"Now come here, youngster, you big one, an' stand up straight."

Abner at once dropped the slip over the boy's head, and made him put his arms through the holes in the sides. The gap in the top was small and the boy's head stuck half way. This was overcome by Abner, who yanked down the slip, which ripped wider, and then flopped down over Tom's tousled head and brought up on the little shoulders.

"There now, guess that'll do all right for a nightgown," was Abner's comment, as he stepped back and viewed his work. "Ye'r surely a queer lookin' bird, but it's better'n nuthin'."

Billy was treated in a similar manner, and when he, too, was robed in another of Mrs. Andrews' pillow-slips, Abner was quite satisfied.

"Now, say ye'r prayers," he ordered.

During the whole of this performance the waifs had not uttered a word. They had been too much taken up with their strange surroundings, and with watching their "uncle." They imagined that he was about to play some new game with them, and when he ordered them to say their prayers they both grinned in anticipation of the game they were expecting.

"Say ye'r prayers, I tell yez," Abner again ordered.

"We don't know that game," Tom explained.

"We don't know thad game," Billy echoed.

"Game!" Abner roared. "De ye think sayin' ye'r prayers is a game?"

"Don't know; never played it."

"Never played it," responded Billy.

"Didn't ye'r mother never learn yez ye'r prayers?"

"No. Guess she didn't know the game."

"Geth she didn't know the game."

Abner sighed and looked helplessly around.

"Well, I never!" he ejaculated. "An' this is a Christian land! S'pose I'll have to leave that to Jess. It'll be a part of her Social Service work. So git into bed with yez, an' don't let me hear a whimper out of yez till mornin'."

Abner went downstairs and out into the kitchen. Having filled and lighted his pipe, he picked up the note which had been lying on the table, and read it again most carefully. Then stretching himself out comfortably upon the sofa, he gave himself up to earnest thought. He remained thus for about an hour. Then he arose and going to the woodhouse brought in a large wire-cage rat-trap. This he baited with considerable care, and, taking it outside, placed it near the pig pen.

"There, guess I ought to have one or two big fellers by mornin'," he chuckled. "It takes more'n one to play a game, an' there's mighty good reason why Abner Andrews, of Ash Pint, should have a hand in this game which Lawyer Rackshaw has started."

*CHAPTER XII*

*BOTTLED DIVILS*

Abner was awakened early the next morning by light footsteps upon the stairs and low whisperings. He did not hear his wife's voice, but supposed that she was downstairs seeing that the cats were "put out," and that the back door was fastened. He expected that a tempest would soon burst in the quiet house, and that in a few minutes he would be called sharply to account. He did not mind Jess, but he did shrink at the thought of what his wife would say about the mutilated pillow-slips, and the putting of two dirty street urchins in a clean bed. As he thus lay and listened for the storm to break, he cherished for an instant the hope that in some way Tildy had fallen so much in love with Mrs. Ikey Dimock that she had stayed with her all night.

Abner had little time, however, for such meditations, for a shriek of fear and astonishment presently fell upon his ears. Then hurried footsteps approached his room, and Jess appeared in the doorway.

"Daddy! Daddy!" she called.

But Abner made no response. He was apparently sleeping the sleep of the just.

"Daddy!" Again came the appeal, this time more urgent than before.

Still Abner made no reply.

For a few seconds Jess stood uncertain what to do. Then she crossed the room, laid her hand upon her father's shoulder, and shook him gently.

"Daddy, daddy, wake up!" she urged.

"Hey, what's that?" Abner cried, starting suddenly up as if from a sound sleep. "Who are ye, an' what de ye want?"

"It's me," Jess replied. "Come quick; there are two people in my bed."

"Two people in ye'r bed! Nonsense. Ye'r luney."

"But I tell you there are," Jess insisted.

"See here, Jess, de ye think I'm a fool? G'long to bed. What's happened to ye, anyway?"

"Please, daddy, don't talk that way. Come and see for yourself."

"Where's ye'r mother?" Abner suddenly asked.

"Why, isn't she home?" Jess asked in surprise.

"Home! Guess not. I'd surely know it if she was."

"But she left before we did," Jess explained.

"She did! How's that? Didn't yez come in the same car?"

"No, you see----" Jess hesitated, and then stopped.

"I see, I see," and Abner nodded. "Ye needn't explain."

Deep in his heart Abner was pleased that his wife was not present at this awkward moment, but he wondered what had become of her. Although Jess worried about her mother, she was anxious to change the subject which might lead to embarrassing questions.

"Won't you tell me about those boys in my bed?" she asked. "Surely you must know where they came from."

Abner chuckled, and just then Belle appeared in the doorway.

"You do know," Jess insisted. "You're laughing. I know you are. Come, confess everything."

It took Abner some time to relate his experience with the waifs of the night, and when he was through he ordered the girls off to bed.

"Yez kin sleep together," he told them, "unless yez want to set up an' watch them beauties in there. I guess yez both'll find some Social Service work to do in the mornin'."

"But what about mother?" Jess anxiously enquired. "I'm afraid something has happened to her."

"An' so yez didn't come with her, eh?"

"No," Jess somewhat reluctantly replied. "Mother left in Mrs. Dimock's car ahead of us."

"An' you two walked, I s'pose? My, yez must be fond of walkin' all the way from Glucom at this time of night. Fer the good of ye'r health, no doubt. More Social Service idea, eh? I've heard of sich cases before. Tildy used to be fond of walkin' before we was married. Said she liked it, 'specially when a man was along."

"Don't make fun of us, daddy," Jess pleaded. "It is no time for joking when mother may be lying injured somewhere along the road."

"She can't be between here an' town, or you'd have seen her," Abner reasoned. "But mebbe yez didn't, fer there's a time in life when young people are blind an' deaf, so I understand."

"Don't you think we had better go and look for mother?" Jess insisted.

"Oh, she'll turn up safe an' sound, never fear. Ye couldn't lose Tildy. Anyway, if Mrs. Ikey's chafer has run away with her, he'll soon bring her back. So git away to bed now, fer I'm most awful sleepy."

There was no more sleep, however, for Abner after the girls had left. He was much concerned about his wife, and he lay there trying to imagine what had happened to her. At length he rose, dressed, and went downstairs. Closing the door between the kitchen and the dining-room, he lighted the fire, and prepared a cup of coffee.

"I kin allus think better an' work better," he had often said, "when I've had a cup of coffee. It's as stimulatin' to me as the yell of an en-gine is to Jerry."

He next visited the trap he had set the previous evening, and a smile overspread his face when he saw three large rats securely captured, and vainly trying to escape.

"Good mornin', me beauties," he accosted. "How de yez like ye'r new quarters? Rather cramped, I admit, but yez'll be a darn sight more cramped than that before I'm through with yez. But if yez behave ye'rselves as decent rats should, mebbe yez'll have fine new quarters fer ye'r pranks, but not as wholesome, perhaps, as this hog-house."

He then went into his little workshop adjoining the woodhouse, and set earnestly to work. The sun creeping in through the dust-covered window found him giving the finishing touches to a stout tin-lined box.

"There, I guess that'll hold 'em," was his comment, as he stood and viewed his handiwork. "Them holes ought to let in enough air to keep 'em alive an' in good fightin' condition. Now fer some fun."