[Illustration: WM. H. CRANE AS DAVID HARUM]

 _WM. H. CRANE EDITION_

 THE

 CHRISTMAS STORY FROM

 DAVID HARUM

 By

 Edward Noyes Westcott

 ILLUSTRATED FROM MR. CHARLES FROHMAN'S PRODUCTION OF DAVID HARUM. A COMEDY DRAMATIZED FROM THE NOVEL

 NEW YORK

 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

 1900

 Copyright, 1898, 1900, By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. 

 _All rights reserved. _

[Illustration]

PREFACE

"Dave done the thing his own way, " said Aunt Polly to the Widow Cullom. "Kind o' fetched it round fer a merry Chris'mus, didn't he?"

This is the story which is reprinted here from Mr. Westcott's famousbook. It was David Harum's nature to do things in his own way, and thequaintness of his methods in raising the Widow Cullom from the depths ofdespair to the heights of happiness frame a story which is read betweenlaughter and tears, and always with a quickening of affection for thegreat-hearted benefactor. David Harum's absolute originality, hisunexpectedness, the dryness of his humor, the shrewdness of his insight, and the kindliness and generosity beneath the surface, have made him apermanent figure in literature. Moreover, the individual quality ofDavid Harum is so distinctively American that he has been recognized asthe typical American, typical of an older generation, perhaps, in mereexternals, but nevertheless an embodiment of characteristics essentiallynational. While only Mr. Westcott's complete book can fully illustratethe personality of David Harum, yet it is equally true that no otherepisode in the book presents the tenderness and quaintness, and the fullquality of David Harum's character, with the richness and pathos of thestory which tells how he paid the "int'rist" upon the "cap'tal" investedby Billy P. Fortunately this story lends itself readily to separatepublication, and it forms an American "Christmas Carol" which stands byitself, an American counterpart of the familiar tale of Dickens, andimbued with a simplicity, humor, and unstudied pathos peculiarly itsown. 

The difference between the written and the acted tale is illustrated inthe use made of the Christmas story in the play. In the book David tellsJohn Lenox the story of the Widow Cullom and her dealings with 'ZekeSwinney, and reveals the truth to her in his office, and the dinnerwhich follows at his house is prolonged by his inimitable tales. In theplay action takes the place of description. In the first act we see'Zeke Swinney obtaining blood-money from the widow, and the latter makesthe acquaintance of Mary Blake, newly entered upon her career ofindependence as Cordelia Prendergast. In the second act we see the widowgiving the second mortgage to David, and thereby strengthening MaryBlake's suspicions, and in the third act David pictures his dreary youthand Billy P. 's act of kindness, and brings the widow to her own, theclimax coming with the toast which opens the dinner and closes the play. It was a delicate and difficult task for even so distinguished an actoras Mr. Crane to undertake a part already hedged about by conflictingtheories; but his insight and his devotion to the character havesucceeded in actually placing before us the David Harum created by Mr. Westcott. 

The illustrations of this book, reproduced from stage photographs bythe courtesy of Mr. Charles Frohman, include the best pictures of Mr. Crane in character, and also stage views of scenes in the second andthird acts, which show the development and culmination of the WidowCullom episode. The Christmas Story is now published separately for thefirst time in this volume, which unites a permanent literary value withthe peculiar interest of Mr. Crane's interpretations of the famouscharacter. 

 * * * * *

After many discouragements, the author of David Harum lived long enoughto know that his book had found appreciation and was to be published, but he died before it appeared. 

Edward Noyes Westcott, the son of Dr. Amos Westcott, a prominentphysician of Syracuse, and at one time mayor of the city, was bornSeptember 27, 1846. Nearly all his life was passed in his native city ofSyracuse. His active career began early at a bank clerk's desk, and hewas afterward teller and cashier, then head of the firm of Westcott &Abbott, bankers and brokers, and in his later years he acted as theregistrar and financial expert of the Syracuse Water Commission. Hisartistic temperament found expression only in music until the last yearsof his life. He wrote articles occasionally upon financial subjects, butit was not until the approach of his last illness that he began DavidHarum. No character in this book is taken directly from life. Storieswhich his father had told and his own keen observations and livelyimagination furnished his material, but neither David Harum nor anyother character is a copy of any individual. No trace of the author'sillness appears in the book. "I've had the fun of writing it, anyway, "he wrote shortly before his death, "and no one will laugh over Davidmore than I have. I never could tell what David was going to do next. "This was the spirit of the brave and gentle author, who died March 31, 1898, unconscious of the fame which was to follow him. 

R. H. 

NEW YORK, _August, 1900. _

[Illustration]

[Illustration: Wm. H. CRANE Edition]

The Christmas Story from David Harum

CHAPTER I

It was the 23d of December, and shortly after the closing hour. Peleghad departed and our friend had just locked the vault when David cameinto the office and around behind the counter. 

"Be you in any hurry?" he asked. 

John said he was not, whereupon Mr. Harum hitched himself up on to ahigh office stool, with his heels on the spindle, and leaned sidewaysupon the desk, while John stood facing him with his left arm upon thedesk. 

"John, " said David, "do ye know the Widdo' Cullom?"

"No, " said John, "but I know who she is--a tall, thin woman, who walkswith a slight stoop and limp. I noticed her and asked her name becausethere was something about her looks that attracted my attention--asthough at some time she might have seen better days. "

"That's the party, " said David. "She has seen better days, but she's eatan' drunk sorro' mostly fer goin' on thirty year, an' darned little elsea good share o' the time, I reckon. "

"She has that appearance certainly, " said John. 

"Yes, sir, " said David, "she's had a putty tough time, the widdo' has, an' yet, " he proceeded after a momentary pause, "the' was a time whenthe Culloms was some o' the kingpins o' this hull region. They used toown quarter o' the county, an' they lived in the big house up on thehill where Doc Hays lives now. That was considered to be the finestplace anywheres 'round here in them days. I used to think the Capitol toWashington must be somethin' like the Cullom house, an' that Billy P. (folks used to call him Billy P. 'cause his father's name was Williaman' his was William Parker), an' that Billy P. 'd jest 's like 's not bepresident. I've changed my mind some on the subject of presidents sinceI was a boy. "

Here Mr. Harum turned on his stool, put his right hand into hissack-coat pocket, extracted therefrom part of a paper of "Maple Dew, "and replenished his left cheek with an ample wad of "fine-cut. " Johntook advantage of the break to head off what he had reason to fear mightturn into a lengthy digression from the matter in hand by saying, "I begpardon, but how does it happen that Mrs. Cullom is in suchcircumstances? Has the family all died out?"

"Wa'al, " said David, "they're most on 'em dead, all on 'em, in fact, except the widdo's son Charley, but as fur's the family's concerned, itmore 'n _died_ out--it _gin_ out! 'D ye ever hear of Jim Wheton's calf?Wa'al, Jim brought three or four veals into town one spring to sell. Dick Larrabee used to peddle meat them days. Dick looked 'em over an'says, 'Look here, Jim, ' he says, 'I guess you got a "deakin" in thatlot, ' he says. 'I dunno what you mean, ' says Jim. 'Yes, ye do, goll darnye!' says Dick, 'yes, ye do. You didn't never kill that calf, an' youknow it. That calf died, that's what that calf done. Come, now, own up, 'he says. 'Wa'al, ' says Jim, 'I didn't _kill_ it, an' it didn't _die_nuther--it jes' kind o' _gin out_. '"

John joined in the laugh with which the narrator rewarded his owneffort, and David went on: "Yes, sir, they jes' petered out. Old Billy, Billy P. 's father, inher'tid all the prop'ty--never done a stroke ofwork in his life. He had a collige education, went to Europe, an' allthat, an' before he was fifty year old he hardly ever come near the oldplace after he was growed up. The land was all farmed out on shares, an'his farmers mostly bamboozled him the hull time. He got consid'ableincome, of course, but as things went along and they found out how slackhe was they kept bitin' off bigger chunks all the time, an' sometimes hedidn't git even the core. But all the time when he wanted money--an' hewanted it putty often, I tell ye--the easiest way was to stick on amorgige; an' after a spell it got so 't he'd have to give a morgige topay the int'rist on the other morgiges. "

"But, " said John, "was there nothing to the estate but land?"

[Illustration]

"Oh, yes, " said David, "old Billy's father left him some consid'ablepers'nal, but after that was gone he went into the morgige bus'nis as Itell ye. He lived mostly up to Syrchester and around, an' when he gotmarried he bought a place in Syrchester and lived there till Billy P. Was about twelve or thirteen year old, an' he was about fifty. By thattime he'd got 'bout to the end of his rope, an' the' wa'n't nothin' forit but to come back here to Homeville an' make the most o' what the' wasleft--an' that's what he done, let alone that he didn't make the moston't to any pertic'ler extent. Mis' Cullom, his wife, wa'n't no help tohim. She was a city woman an' didn't take to the country no way, butwhen she died it broke old Billy up wus 'n ever. She peaked an' pined, an' died when Billy P. Was about fifteen or so. Wa'al, Billy P. An' theold man wrastled along somehow, an' the boy went to collige fer a yearor so. How they ever got along 's they did I dunno. The' was a storythat some far-off relation left old Billy some money, an' I guess thatan' what they got off'm what farms was left carried 'em along till BillyP. Was twenty-five or so, an' then he up an' got married. That was thecrownin' stroke, " remarked David. "She was one o' the villagegirls--respectable folks, more 'n ordinary good lookin' an' highsteppin', an' had had some schoolin'. But the old man was prouder 'n acock-turkey, an' thought nobody wa'n't quite good enough fer Billy P. , an' all along kind o' reckoned that he'd marry some money an' git a newstart. But when he got married--on the quiet, you know, cause he knowedthe old man would kick--wa'al, that killed the trick, an' the old maninto the bargain. It took the gumption all out of him, an' he didn'tlive a year. Wa'al, sir, it was curious, but, 's I was told, putty muchthe hull village sided with the old man. The Culloms was kind o' kingsin them days, an' folks wa'n't so one-man's-good's-anotherish as they benow. They thought Billy P. Done wrong, though they didn't have nothin'to say 'gainst the girl neither--an' she's very much respected, Mis'Cullom is, an' as fur's I'm concerned, I've alwus guessed she kept BillyP. Goin' full as long 's any one could. But 't wa'n't no use--that is tosay, the sure thing come to pass. He had a nom'nal title to a good dealo' prop'ty, but the equity in most on't if it had ben to be put upwa'n't enough to pay fer the papers. You see, the' ain't never ben noreal cash value in farm prop'ty in these parts. The' ain't ben hardly adozen changes in farm titles, 'cept by inher'tance or foreclosure, inthirty years. So Billy P. Didn't make no effort. Int'rist's one o' themthings that keeps right on nights an' Sundays. He jest had the deedsmade out an' handed 'em over when the time came to settle. The' was somevillage lots though that was clear, that fetched him in some money fromtime to time until they was all gone but one, an' that's the one Mis'Cullom lives on now. It was consid'able more'n a lot--in fact, a puttysizable place. She thought the sun rose an' set where Billy P. Was, butshe took a crotchit in her head, and wouldn't ever sign no papers ferthat, an' lucky fer him too. The' was a house on to it, an' he had aroof over his head anyway when he died six or seven years after hemarried, an' left her with a boy to raise. How she got along all themyears till Charley got big enough to help, I swan! I don't know. Shetook in sewin' an' washin', an' went out to cook an' nurse, an' allthat, but I reckon the' was now an' then times when they didn't overloadtheir stomechs much, nor have to open the winders to cool off. But sheheld on to that prop'ty of her'n like a pup to a root. It was putty wellout when Billy P. Died, but the village has growed up to it. The's somegood lots could be cut out on't, an' it backs up to the river where thecurrent's enough to make a mighty good power fer a 'lectric light. Iknow some fellers that are talkin' of startin' a plant here, an' itain't out o' sight that they'd pay a good price fer the river front, an'enough land to build on. Fact on't is, it's got to be a putty valu'blepiece o' prop'ty, more 'n she cal'lates on, I reckon. "

Here Mr. Harum paused, pinching his chin with thumb and index finger, and mumbling his tobacco. John, who had listened with more attentionthan interest--wondering the while as to what the narrative was leadingup to--thought something might properly be expected of him to show thathe had followed it, and said, "So Mrs. Cullom has kept this last piececlear, has she?"

"No, " said David, bringing down his right hand upon the desk withemphasis, "that's jes' what she hain't done, an' that's how I come totell ye somethin' of the story, an' more on't 'n you've cared abouthearin', mebbe. "

"Not at all, " John protested. "I have been very much interested. "

"You have, have you?" said Mr. Harum. "Wa'al, I got somethin' I want yeto do. Day after to-morro' 's Chris'mus, an' I want ye to drop Mis'Cullom a line, somethin' like this, 'That Mr. Harum told ye to say thatthat morgige he holds, havin' ben past due fer some time, an' noint'rist havin' ben paid fer, let me see, more'n a year, he wants toclose the matter up, an' he'll see her Chris'mus mornin' at the bank atnine o'clock, he havin' more time on that day; but that, as fur as hecan see, the bus'nis won't take very long'--somethin' like that, youunderstand?"

[Illustration]

"Very well, sir, " said John, hoping that his employer would not see inhis face the disgust and repugnance he felt as he surmised what a schemewas on foot, and recalled what he had heard of Harum's hard andunscrupulous ways, though he had to admit that this, excepting perhapsthe episode of the counterfeit money, was the first revelation to himpersonally. But this seemed very bad indeed. 

"All right, " said David cheerfully, "I s'pose it won't take you long tofind out what's in your stockin', an' if you hain't nothin' else to doChris'mus mornin' I'd like to have you open the office an' stay 'round aspell till I git through with Mis' Cullom. Mebbe the' 'll be some papersto fill out or witniss or somethin'; an' have that skeezicks of a boymake up the fires so'st the place'll be warm. "

"Very good, sir, " said John, hoping that the interview was at an end. 

But the elder man sat for some minutes apparently in a brown study, andoccasionally a smile of sardonic cunning wrinkled his face. At last hesaid: "I've told ye so much that I may as well tell ye how I come bythat morgidge. Twon't take but a minute, an' then you can run an' play, "he added with a chuckle. 

"I trust I have not betrayed any impatience, " said John, and instantlyconscious of his infelicitous expression, added hastily, "I have reallybeen very much interested. "

"Oh, no, " was the reply, "you hain't _betrayed_ none, but I know oldfellers like me gen'rally tell a thing twice over while they're at it. Wa'al, " he went on, "it was like this. After Charley Cullom got to besome grown he helped to keep the pot a-bilin', 'n they got on somebetter. 'Bout seven year ago, though, he up an' got married, an' thenthe fat ketched fire. Finally he allowed that if he had some money he'dgo West 'n take up some land, 'n git along like pussly 'n a flowergard'n. He ambitioned that if his mother 'd raise a thousan' dollars onher place he'd be sure to take care of the int'rist, an' prob'ly pay offthe princ'pal in almost no time. Wa'al, she done it, an' off he went. She didn't come to me fer the money, because--I dunno--at any rate shedidn't, but got it of 'Zeke Swinney. 

"Wa'al, it turned out jest 's any fool might 've predilictid, fer afterthe first year, when I reckon he paid it out of the thousan', Charleynever paid no int'rist. The second year he was jes' gettin' goin', an'the next year he lost a hoss jest 's he was cal'latin' to pay, an' thenext year the grasshoppers smote him, 'n so on; an' the outcome was thatat the end of five years, when the morgige had one year to run, Charley'd paid one year, an' she'd paid one, an' she stood to owe threeyears' int'rist. How old Swinney come to hold off so was that she usedto pay the cuss ten dollars or so ev'ry six months 'n git no credit ferit, an' no receipt an' no witniss, 'n he knowed the prop'ty wasimproving all the time. He may have had another reason, but at any ratehe let her run, an' got the shave reg'lar. But at the time I'm tellin'you about he'd begun to cut up, an' allowed that if she didn't settle upthe int'rist he'd foreclose, an' I got wind on't an' I run across herone day an' got to talkin' with her, an' she gin me the hull narration. 'How much do you owe the old critter?' I says. 'A hunderd an' eightydollars, ' she says, 'an' where I'm goin' to git it, ' she says, 'the Lordonly knows. ' 'An' He won't tell ye, I reckon, ' I says. Wa'al, of courseI'd known that old Swinney had a morgidge because it was a matter ofrecord, an' I knowed him well enough to give a guess what his game wasgoin' to be, an' more'n that I'd had my eye on that piece an' parcel an'I figured that he wa'n't any likelier a citizen 'n I was. " ("Yes, " saidJohn to himself, "where the carcase is the vultures are gatheredtogether. ")

"'Wa'al, ' I says to her, after we'd had a little more talk, 's'posenyou come 'round to my place to-morro' 'bout 'leven o'clock, an' mebbe wec'n cipher this thing out. I don't say positive that we kin, ' I says, 'but mebbe, mebbe. ' So that afternoon I sent over to the county seat an'got a description an' had a second morgige drawed up fer two hundreddollars, an' Mis' Cullom signed it mighty quick. I had the morgige madeone day after date, 'cause, as I said to her, it was in the nature of atemp'rary loan, but she was so tickled she'd have signed most anythin'at that pertic'ler time. 'Now, ' I says to her, 'you go an' settle withold Step-an'-fetch-it, but don't you say a word where you got themoney, ' I says. 'Don't ye let on nothin'--stretch that conscience o'your'n if nes'sary, ' I says, 'an' be pertic'ler if he asks you if DaveHarum give ye the money you jes' say, "No, he didn't. " That won't be nolie, ' I says, 'because I ain't _givin_' it to ye, ' I says. Wa'al, shedone as I told her. Of course Swinney suspicioned fust off that I wasmixed up in it, but she stood him off so fair an' square that he didn'tknow jes' what _to_ think, but his claws was cut fer a spell, anyway. 

[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act II]

"Wa'al, things went on fer a while, till I made up my mind that Iought to relieve Swinney of some of his anxieties about worldly bus'nis, an' I dropped in on him one mornin' an' passed the time o' day, an'after we'd eased up our minds on the subjects of each other's health an'such like I says, 'You hold a morgige on the Widder Cullom's place, don't ye?' Of course he couldn't say nothin' but 'yes. ' 'Does she keepup the int'rist all right?' I says. 'I don't want to be pokin' my noseinto your bus'nis, ' I says, 'an' don't tell me nothin' you don't wantto. ' Wa'al, he knowed Dave Harum was Dave Harum, an' that he might 'swell speak it out, an' he says, 'Wa'al, she didn't pay nothin' fer agood while, but last time she forked over the hull amount. But I hain'tno notion, ' he says, 'that she'll come to time agin. ' 'An' s'posin' shedon't, ' I says, 'you'll take the prop'ty, won't ye?' 'Don't see no otherway, ' he says, an' lookin' up quick, 'unless you over-bid me, ' he says. 'No, ' I says, 'I ain't buyin' no real estate jes' now, but the thing Icome in fer, ' I says, 'leavin' out the pleasure of havin' a talk withyou, was to say that I'd take that morgige off'm your hands. '

"Wa'al, sir, he, he, he, he! Scat my----! At that he looked at me fer aminute with his jaw on his neck, an' then he hunched himself, 'n drawedin his neck like a mud turtle. 'No, ' he says, 'I ain't sufferin' fer themoney, an' I guess I'll keep the morgige. It's putty near due now, butmebbe I'll let it run a spell. I guess the secur'ty's good fer it. ''Yes, ' I says, 'I reckon you'll let it run long enough fer the widder topay the taxes on't once more anyhow; I guess the secur'ty's good enoughto take that resk; but how 'bout _my_ secur'ty?' I says. 'What d'youmean?' he says. 'I mean, ' says I, 'that I've got a second morgige onthat prop'ty, an' I begin to tremble fer my secur'ty. You've jes' toldme, ' I says, 'that you're goin' to foreclose an' I cal'late to protectmyself, an' I _don't_ cal'late, ' I says, 'to have to go an' bid on thatprop'ty, an' put in a lot more money to save my investment, unless I'm'bleeged to--not _much!_ an' you can jes' sign that morgige over to me, an' the sooner the quicker, ' I says. "

David brought his hand down on his thigh with a vigorous slap, thefellow of the one which, John could imagine, had emphasized his demandupon Swinney. The story, to which he had at first listened with politepatience merely, he had found more interesting as it went on, and, excusing himself, he brought up a stool, and mounting it, said, "Andwhat did Swinney say to that?" Mr. Harum emitted a gurgling chuckle, yawned his quid out of his mouth, tossing it over his shoulder in thegeneral direction of the waste basket, and bit off the end of a cigarwhich he found by slapping his waistcoat pockets. John got down andfetched him a match, which he scratched in the vicinity of his hippocket, lighted his cigar (John declining to join him on some plausiblepretext, having on a previous occasion accepted one of the brand), andafter rolling it around with his lips and tongue to the effect that thelighted end described sundry eccentric curves, located it firmly with anupward angle in the left-hand corner of his mouth, gave it a couple ofvigorous puffs, and replied to John's question. 

"Wa'al, 'Zeke Swinney was a perfesser of religion some years ago, an'mebbe he is now, but what he said to me on this pertic'ler occasion wasthat he'd see me in hell fust, 'an _then_ he wouldn't. 

"'Wa'al, ' I says, 'mebbe you won't, mebbe you will, it's alwus apleasure to meet ye, ' I says, 'but in that case this morgige bus'nis 'llbe a question fer our executors, ' I says, 'fer _you_ don't neverforeclose that morgige, an' don't you fergit it, ' I says. 

"'Oh, you'd like to git holt o' that prop'ty yourself. I see what you'reup to, ' he says. 

[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act II]

"'Look a-here, 'Zeke Swinney, ' I says, 'I've got an int'rist in thatprop'ty, an' I propose to p'tect it. You're goin' to sign that morgigeover to me, or I'll foreclose an' surrygate ye, ' I says, 'unless youallow to bid in the prop'ty, in which case we'll see whose weasel-skin'sthe longest. But I guess it won't come to that, ' I says. 'You kin takeyour choice, ' I says. 'Whether I want to git holt o' that prop'ty myselfain't neither here nor there. Mebbe I do, an' mebbe I don't, butanyways, ' I says, '_you_ don't git it, nor wouldn't ever, for if I can'tmake you sign over, I'll either do what I said or I'll back the widderin a defence fer usury. Put that in your pipe an' smoke it, ' I says. 

"'What do you mean?' he says, gittin' half out his chair. 

"'I mean this, ' I says, 'that the fust six months the widder couldn'tpay she gin you ten dollars to hold off, an' the next time she gin youfifteen, an' that you've bled her fer shaves to the tune of sixty odddollars in three years, an' then got your int'rist in full. '

"That riz him clean out of his chair, " said David. "'She can't proveit, ' he says, shakin' his fist in the air. 

[Illustration]

"'Oh, ho! ho!' I says, tippin' my chair back agin the wall. 'If Mis'Cullom was to swear how an' where she paid you the money, givin' chapteran' verse, and showin' her own mem'randums even, an' I was to swear thatwhen I twitted you with gittin' it you didn't deny it, but only saidthat she couldn't _prove_ it, how long do you think it 'ould take aFreeland County jury to find agin ye? I allow, 'Zeke Swinney, ' I says, 'that you wa'n't born yestid'y, but you ain't so old as you look, not bya dum sight!' an' then how I did laugh!

"Wa'al, " said David, as he got down off the stool and stretched himself, yawning, "I guess I've yarned it enough fer one day. Don't fergit tosend Mis' Cullom that notice, an' make it up an' up. I'm goin' to gitthe thing off my mind this trip. "

"Very well, sir, " said John, "but let me ask, did Swinney assign themortgage without any trouble?"

"O Lord! yes, " was the reply. "The' wa'n't nothin' else fer him to do. I had another twist on him that I hain't mentioned. But he put up agreat show of doin' it to obleege me. Wa'al, I thanked him an' so on, an' when we'd got through I ast him if he wouldn't step over to the'Eagil' an' take somethin', an' he looked kind o' shocked an' said henever drinked nothin'. It was 'gin his princ'ples, he said. Ho, ho, ho, ho! Scat my----! Princ'ples!" and John heard him chuckling to himselfall the way out of the office. 

CHAPTER II

Considering John's relations with David Harum, it was natural that heshould wish to think as well of him as possible, and he had not (orthought he had not) allowed his mind to be influenced by the disparagingremarks and insinuations which had been made to him, or in his presence, concerning his employer. He had made up his mind to form his opinionupon his own experience with the man, and so far it had not only beenpleasant but favorable, and far from justifying the half-jeering, half-malicious talk that had come to his ears. It had been made manifestto him, it was true, that David was capable of a sharp bargain incertain lines, but it seemed to him that it was more for the pleasure ofmatching his wits against another's than for any gain involved. Mr. Harum was an experienced and expert horseman, who delighted above allthings in dealing in and trading horses, and John soon discovered that, in that community at least, to get the best of a "hoss-trade" by almostany means was considered a venial sin, if a sin at all, and thestandards of ordinary business probity were not expected to govern thosetransactions. 

David had said to him once when he suspected that John's ideas mighthave sustained something of a shock, "A hoss-trade ain't like anythin'else. A feller may be straighter 'n a string in ev'rythin' else, an'never tell the truth--that is, the hull truth--about a hoss. I tradehosses with hoss-traders. They all think they know as much as I do, an'I dunno but what they do. They hain't learnt no diff'rent anyway, an'they've had chances enough. If a feller come to me that didn't think heknowed anythin' about a hoss, an' wanted to buy on the square, he'd git, fur's I knew, square treatment. At any rate I'd tell him all 't I knew. But when one o' them smart Alecks comes along an' cal'lates to do up oldDave, why he's got to take his chances, that's all. An' mind ye, "asserted David, shaking his forefinger impressively, "it ain't only themfellers. I've ben wuss stuck two three time by church members in goodstandin' than anybody I ever dealed with. Take old Deakin Perkins. He'sa terrible feller fer church bus'nes; c'n pray an' psalm-sing to beatthe Jews, an' in spiritual matters c'n read his title clear the hulltime, but when it comes to hoss-tradin' you got to git up very early inthe mornin' or he'll skin the eye-teeth out of ye. Yes, sir! Scatmy----! I believe the old critter _makes_ hosses! But the deakin, " addedDavid, "he, he, he, he! the deakin hain't hardly spoke to me fer someconsid'able time, the deakin hain't. He, he, he!

[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III]

"Another thing, " he went on, "the' ain't no gamble like a hoss. You maythink you know him through an' through, an' fust thing you know he'll becuttin' up a lot o' didos right out o' nothin'. It stands to reason thatsometimes you let a hoss go all on the square--as you know him--an' thefeller that gits him don't know how to hitch him or treat him, an' heacts like a diff'rent hoss, an' the feller allows you swindled him. Yousee, hosses gits used to places an' ways to a certain extent, an' whenthey're changed, why they're apt to act diff'rent. Hosses don't know butdreadful little, really. Talk about hoss sense--wa'al, the' ain't nosuch thing. "

Thus spoke David on the subject of his favorite pursuit and pastime, and John thought then that he could understand and condone some thingshe had seen and heard, at which at first he was inclined to lookaskance. But this matter of the Widow Cullom's was a different thing, and as he realized that he was expected to play a part, though a smallone, in it, his heart sank within him that he had so far cast hisfortunes upon the good will of a man who could plan and carry out soheartless and cruel an undertaking as that which had been revealed tohim that afternoon. He spent the evening in his room trying to read, butthe widow's affairs persistently thrust themselves upon his thoughts. All the unpleasant stories he had heard of David came to his mind, andhe remembered with misgiving some things which at the time had seemedregular and right enough, but which took on a different color in thelight in which he found himself recalling them. He debated with himselfwhether he should not decline to send Mrs. Cullom the notice as he hadbeen instructed, and left it an open question when he went to bed. 

He wakened somewhat earlier than usual to find that the thermometer hadgone up, and the barometer down. The air was full of a steady downpour, half snow, half rain, about the most disheartening combination which theworst climate in the world--that of central New York--can furnish. Hepassed rather a busy day in the office in an atmosphere redolent of theunsavory odors raised by the proximity of wet boots and garments to thebig cylinder stove outside the counter, a compound of stale smells fromkitchen and stable. 

After the bank closed he dispatched Peleg Hopkins, the office boy, withthe note for Mrs. Cullom. He had abandoned his half-formed intention torevolt, but had made the note not only as little peremptory as wascompatible with a clear intimation of its purport as he understood it, but had yielded to a natural impulse in beginning it with an expressionof personal regret--a blunder which cost him no little chagrin in theoutcome. 

Peleg Hopkins grumbled audibly when he was requested to build thefires on Christmas day, and expressed his opinion that "if there warn'tBible agin workin' on Chris'mus, the' 'd ort ter be"; but when Johnopened the door of the bank that morning he found the temperature incomfortable contrast to the outside air. The weather had changed again, and a blinding snowstorm, accompanied by a buffeting gale from thenorthwest, made it almost impossible to see a path and to keep it. Inthe central part of the town some tentative efforts had been made toopen walks, but these were apparent only as slight and tortuousdepressions in the depths of snow. In the outskirts the unfortunatepedestrian had to wade to the knees. 

[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III]

As John went behind the counter his eye was at once caught by a smallparcel lying on his desk, of white note paper, tied with a cottonstring, which he found to be addressed, "Mr. John Lenox, Esq. , Present, "and as he took it up it seemed heavy for its size. 

Opening it, he found a tiny stocking, knit of white wool, to which waspinned a piece of paper with the legend, "A Merry Christmas from AuntPolly. " Out of the stocking fell a packet fastened with a rubber strap. Inside were five ten-dollar gold pieces and a slip of paper on which waswritten, "A Merry Christmas from Your Friend David Harum. " For a momentJohn's face burned, and there was a curious smarting of the eyelids ashe held the little stocking and its contents in his hand. Surely thehand that had written "Your Friend" on that scrap of paper could not bethe hand of an oppressor of widows and orphans. "This, " said John tohimself, "is what he meant when he 'supposed it wouldn't take me long tofind out what was in my stocking. '"

 * * * * *

The door opened and a blast and whirl of wind and snow rushed in, ushering the tall, bent form of the Widow Cullom. The drive of the windwas so strong that John vaulted over the low cash counter to push thedoor shut again. The poor woman was white with snow from the front ofher old worsted hood to the bottom of her ragged skirt. 

"You are Mrs. Cullom?" said John. "Wait a moment till I brush off thesnow, and then come to the fire in the back room. Mr. Harum will be indirectly, I expect. "

"Be I much late?" she asked. "I made 's much haste 's I could. It don'tappear to me 's if I ever see a blusteriner day, 'n I ain't as strong asI used to be. Seemed as if I never would git here. "

"Oh, no, " said John, as he established her before the glowing grate ofthe Franklin stove in the back parlor, "not at all. Mr. Harum has notcome in himself yet. Shall you mind if I excuse myself a moment whileyou make yourself as comfortable as possible?" She did not apparentlyhear him. She was trembling from head to foot with cold and fatigue andnervous excitement. Her dress was soaked to the knees, and as she satdown and put up her feet to the fire John saw a bit of a thin cottonstocking and her deplorable shoes, almost in a state of pulp. Asnow-obliterated path led from the back door of the office to David'shouse, and John snatched his hat and started for it on a run. As hestamped off some of the snow on the veranda the door was opened for himby Mrs. Bixbee. "Lord sakes!" she exclaimed. "What on earth be youcavortin' 'round for such a mornin' 's this without no overcoat, an' ona dead run? What's the matter?"

"Nothing serious, " he answered, "but I'm in a great hurry. Old Mrs. Cullom has walked up from her house to the office, and she is wetthrough and almost perished. I thought you'd send her some dry shoes andstockings, and an old shawl or blanket to keep her wet skirt off herknees, and a drop of whisky or something. She's all of a tremble, andI'm afraid she will have a chill. "

[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III]

"Certain! certain!" said the kind creature, and she bustled out of theroom, returning in a minute or two with an armful of comforts. "There'sa pair of bedroom slips lined with lamb's wool, an' a pair of woolenstockin's, an' a blanket shawl. This here petticut, 't ain't what ye'dcall bran' new, but it's warm and comf'table, an' I don't believe she'sgot much of anythin' on 'ceptin' her dress, an' I'll git ye the whisky, but"--here she looked deprecatingly at John--"it ain't gen'ally known 'twe keep the stuff in the house. I don't know as it's right, but thoughDavid don't hardly ever touch it he will have it in the house. "

"Oh, " said John, laughing, "you may trust my discretion, and we'll swearMrs. Cullom to secrecy. "

"Wa'al, all right, " said Mrs. Bixbee, joining in the laugh as shebrought the bottle; "jest a minute till I make a passel of the things tokeep the snow out. There, now, I guess you're fixed, an' you kin hurryback 'fore she ketches a chill. "

"Thanks very much, " said John as he started away. "I have something tosay to you besides 'Merry Christmas, ' but I must wait till anothertime. "

When John got back to the office David had just preceded him. 

"Wa'al, wa'al, " he was saying, "but you be in a putty consid'ablestate. Hullo, John! what you got there? Wa'al, you air the stuff! Slips, blanket-shawl, petticut, stockin's--wa'al, you an' Polly ben puttin'your heads together, I guess. What's that? Whisky! Wa'al, scat my----! Ididn't s'pose wild hosses would have drawed it out o' Polly to let onthe' was any in the house, much less to fetch it out. Jes' the thing!Oh, yes ye are, Mis' Cullom--jest a mouthful with water, " taking theglass from John, "jest a spoonful to git your blood a-goin', an' thenMr. Lenox an' me 'll go into the front room while you make yourselfcomf'table. "

"Consarn it all!" exclaimed Mr. Harum as they stood leaning against theteller's counter, facing the street, "I didn't cal'late to have Mis'Cullom hoof it up here the way she done. When I see what kind of a dayit was I went out to the barn to have the cutter hitched an' send forher, an' I found ev'rythin' topsy-turvy. That dum'd uneasy sorril colthad got cast in the stall, an' I ben fussin' with him ever since. Iclean forgot all 'bout Mis' Cullom till jes' now. "

"Is the colt much injured?" John asked. 

"Wa'al, he won't trot a twenty gait in some time, I reckon, " repliedDavid. "He's wrenched his shoulder some, an' mebbe strained his inside. Don't seem to take no int'rist in his feed, an' that's a bad sign. Consarn a hoss, anyhow! If they're wuth anythin' they're more bother 'na teethin' baby. Alwus some dum thing ailin' 'em, an' I took consid'ablestock in that colt too, " he added regretfully, "an' I could 'a' gotputty near what I was askin' fer him last week, an' putty near what hewas wuth, an' I've noticed that most gen'ally alwus when I let a goodoffer go like that, some cussed thing happens to the hoss. It ain't abad idee, in the hoss bus'nis anyway, to be willin' to let the otherfeller make a dollar once 'n a while. "

After that aphorism they waited in silence for a few minutes, and thenDavid called out over his shoulder, "How be you gettin' along, Mis'Cullom?"

[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III]

"I guess I'm fixed, " she answered, and David walked slowly back intothe parlor, leaving John in the front office. He was annoyed to realizethat in the bustle over Mrs. Cullom and what followed, he had forgottento acknowledge the Christmas gift; but, hoping that Mr. Harum had beenequally oblivious, promised himself to repair the omission later on. Hewould have preferred to go out and leave the two to settle their affairwithout witness or hearer, but his employer, who, as he had found, usually had a reason for his actions, had explicitly requested him toremain, and he had no choice. He perched himself upon one of the officestools and composed himself to await the conclusion of the affair. 

CHAPTER III

Mrs. Cullom was sitting at one corner of the fire, and David drew achair opposite to her. 

"Feelin' all right now? whisky hain't made ye liable to no disorderlyconduct, has it?" he asked with a laugh. 

"Yes, thank you, " was the reply, "the warm things are real comfortin', 'n' I guess I hain't had licker enough to make me want to throw things. You got a kind streak in ye, Dave Harum, if you did send me this herenote--but I s'pose ye know your own bus'nis, " she added with a sigh ofresignation. "I ben fearin' fer a good while 't I couldn't hold on t'that prop'ty, an' I don't know but what you might's well git it as 'ZekeSwinney, though I ben hopin' 'gainst hope that Charley 'd be able to domorn 'n he has. "

"Let's see the note, " said David curtly. "H'm, humph, 'regret to saythat I have been instructed by Mr. Harum'--wa'al, h'm'm, cal'lated toclear his own skirts anyway--h'm'm--'must be closed up without furtherdelay' (John's eye caught the little white stocking which still lay onhis desk)--'wa'al, yes, that's about what I told Mr. Lenox to say fur'sthe bus'nis part's concerned--I might 'a' done my own regrettin' if I'dwrote the note myself. " (John said something to himself. ) "'T ain't thepleasantest thing in the world fer ye, I allow, but then you see, bus'nis is bus'nis. "

John heard David clear his throat, and there was a hiss in the openfire. Mrs. Cullom was silent, and David resumed:

"You see, Mis' Cullom, it's like this. I ben thinkin' of this matterfer a good while. That place ain't ben no real good to ye sence thefirst year you signed that morgidge. You hain't scurcely more'n madeends meet, let alone the int'rist, an' it's ben simply a question o'time, an' who'd git the prop'ty in the long run fer some years. Ireckoned, same as you did, that Charley 'd mebbe come to the front--buthe hain't done it, an' 't ain't likely he ever will. Charley's a likely'nough boy some ways, but he hain't got much 'git there' in his make-up, not more'n enough fer one anyhow, I reckon. That's about the size on't, ain't it?"

Mrs. Cullom murmured a feeble admission that she was "'fraid it was. "

[Illustration]

"Wa'al, " resumed Mr. Harum, "I see how things was goin', an' I see thatunless I played euchre, 'Zeke Swinney 'd git that prop'ty, an' whether Iwanted it myself or not, I didn't cal'late he sh'd git it anyway. He puta spoke in my wheel once, an' I hain't forgot it. But that hain'tneither here nor there. Wa'al, " after a short pause, "you know I helpedye pull the thing along on the chance, as ye may say, that you an' yourson 'd somehow make a go on't. "

"You ben very kind, so fur, " said the widow faintly. 

"Don't ye say that, don't ye say that, " protested David. "'T wa'n't nokindness. It was jes' bus'nis. I wa'n't takin' no chances, an' I s'poseI might let the thing run a spell longer if I c'd see any use in't. Butthe' ain't, an' so I ast ye to come up this mornin' so 't we c'd settlethe thing up without no fuss, nor trouble, nor lawyer's fees, nornothin'. I've got the papers all drawed, an' John--Mr. Lenox--here totake the acknowlidgments. You hain't no objection to windin' the thingup this mornin', have ye?"

"I s'pose I'll have to do whatever you say, " replied the poor woman in atone of hopeless discouragement, "an' I might as well be killed to once, as to die by inch pieces. "

"All right then, " said David cheerfully, ignoring her lethalsuggestion, "but before we git down to bus'nis an' signin' papers, an'in order to set myself in as fair a light 's I can in the matter, I wantto tell ye a little story. "

"I hain't no objection 's I know of, " acquiesced the widow graciously. 

"All right, " said David, "I won't preach more 'n about up to thesixthly--How'd you feel if I was to light up a cigar? I hain't much of ahand at a yarn, an' if I git stuck, I c'n puff a spell. Thank ye. Wa'al, Mis' Cullom, you used to know somethin' about my folks. I was raised onBuxton Hill. The' was nine on us, an' I was the youngest o' the lot. Myfather farmed a piece of about forty to fifty acres, an' had a smallshop where he done odd times small jobs of tinkerin' fer the neighborswhen the' was anythin' to do. My mother was his second, an' I was theonly child of that marriage. He married agin when I was about two yearold, an' how I ever got raised 's more 'n I c'n tell ye. My sister Pollywas 'sponsible more 'n any one, I guess, an' the only one o' the wholelot that ever gin me a decent word. Small farmin' ain't cal'lated tofetch out the best traits of human nature--an' keep 'em out--an' itseems to me sometimes that when the old man wa'n't cuffin' my ears hewas lickin' me with a rawhide or a strap. Fur 's that was concerned, allhis boys used to ketch it putty reg'lar till they got too big. One on'em up an' licked him one night, an' lit out next day. I s'pose the oldman's disposition was sp'iled by what some feller said farmin' was, 'workin' all day, an' doin' chores all night, ' an' larrupin' me an' allthe rest on us was about all the enjoyment he got. My brothers an'sisters--'ceptin' of Polly--was putty nigh as bad in respect of cuffsan' such like; an' my stepmarm was, on the hull, the wust of all. Shehadn't no childern o' her own, an' it appeared 's if I was jes' pizen toher. 'T wa'n't so much slappin' an' cuffin' with her as 't was tongue. She c'd say things that 'd jes' raise a blister like pizen ivy. I s'poseI _was_ about as ord'nary, no-account-lookin', red-headed, freckledlittle cuss as you ever see, an' slinkin' in my manners. The air of ourhome circle wa'n't cal'lated to raise heroes in. 

"I got three four years' schoolin', an' made out to read an' write an'cipher up to long division 'fore I got through, but after I got to besix years old, school or no school, I had to work reg'lar at anything Ihad strength fer, an' more too. Chores before school an' after school, an' a two-mile walk to git there. As fur 's clo'es was concerned, anyold thing that 'd hang together was good enough fer me; but by the timethe older boys had outgrowed their duds, an' they was passed on to me, the' wa'n't much left on 'em. A pair of old cowhide boots that leaked inmore snow an' water 'n they kept out, an' a couple pairs of woolen socksthat was putty much all darns, was expected to see me through thewinter, an' I went barefoot f'm the time the snow was off the groundtill it flew agin in the fall. The' wa'n't but two seasons o' the yearwith me--them of chilblains an' stun-bruises. "

The speaker paused and stared for a moment into the comfortable glow ofthe fire, and then discovering to his apparent surprise that his cigarhad gone out, lighted it from a coal picked out with the tongs. 

"Farmin' 's a hard life, " remarked Mrs. Cullom with an air of beingexpected to make some contribution to the conversation. 

"An' yit, as it seems to me as I look back on't, " David resumedpensively, "the wust on't was that nobody ever gin me a kind word, 'ceptPolly. I s'pose I got kind o' used to bein' cold an' tired; dressin' ina snowdrift where it blowed into the attic, an' goin' out to foddercattle 'fore sun-up; pickin' up stun in the blazin' sun, an' doin' allthe odd jobs my father set me to, an' the older ones shirked onto me. That was the reg'lar order o' things; but I remember I never _did_ gitused to never pleasin' nobody. Course I didn't expect nothin' f'm mystep-marm, an' the only way I ever knowed I'd done my stent fur 'sfather was concerned, was that he didn't say nothin'. But sometimes theolder one's 'd git settin' 'round, talkin' an' laughin', havin' pop cornan' apples, an' that, an' I'd kind o' sidle up, wantin' to join 'em, an'some on 'em 'd say, 'What _you_ doin' here? time you was in bed, ' an'give me a shove or a cuff. Yes, ma'am, " looking up at Mrs. Cullom, "thewust on't was that I was kind o' scairt the hull time. Once in a whilePolly 'd give me a mossel o' comfort, but Polly wa'n't but little older'n me, an' bein' the youngest girl, was chored most to death herself. "

It had stopped snowing, and though the wind still came in gusty blasts, whirling the drift against the windows, a wintry gleam of sunshine camein and touched the widow's wrinkled face. 

[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III]

"It's amazin' how much trouble an' sorrer the' is in the world, an'how soon it begins, " she remarked, moving a little to avoid thesunlight. "I hain't never ben able to reconcile how many good thingsthe' be, an' how little most on us gits o' them. I hain't ben to meetin'fer a long spell 'cause I hain't had no fit clo'es, but I remember mostof the preachin' I've set under either dwelt on the wrath to come, orelse on the Lord's doin' all things well, an' providin'. I hope I ain'tno wickeder 'n than the gen'ral run, but it's putty hard to hev faith inthe Lord's providin' when you hain't got nothin' in the house but cornmeal, an' none too much o' that. "

"That's so, Mis' Cullom, that's so, " affirmed David. "I don't blame ye amite. 'Doubts assail, an' oft prevail, ' as the hymnbook says, an' Ireckon it's a sight easier to have faith on meat an' potatoes 'n it ison corn meal mush. Wa'al, as I was sayin'--I hope I ain't tirin' ye withmy goin's on?"

"No, " said Mrs. Cullom, "I'm engaged to hear ye, but nobody 'd suppose tosee ye now that ye was such a f'lorn little critter as you make out. "

"It's jest as I'm tellin' ye, an' more also, as the Bible says, "returned David, and then, rather more impressively, as if he wereleading up to his conclusion, "it come along to a time when I was 'twixtthirteen an' fourteen. The' was a cirkis billed to show down here inHomeville, an' ev'ry barn an' shed fer miles around had pictures stuckon to 'em of el'phants, an' rhinoceroses, an' ev'ry animul that wentinto the ark; an' girls ridin' bareback an' jumpin' through hoops, an'fellers ridin' bareback an' turnin' summersets, an' doin' turnovers onswings; an' clowns gettin' hoss-whipped, an' ev'ry kind of a thing thatcould be pictered out; an' how the' was to be a grand percession at teno'clock, 'ith golden chariots, an' scripteral allegories, an' the hullbus'nis; an' the gran' performance at two o'clock; admission twenty-fivecents, children under twelve, at cetery, an' so forth. Wa'al, I hadn'tno more idee o' goin' to that cirkis 'n I had o' flyin' to the moon, butthe night before the show somethin' waked me 'bout twelve o'clock. Idon't know how 't was. I'd ben helpin' mend fence all day, an' gen'allyI never knowed nothin' after my head struck the bed till mornin'. Butthat night, anyhow, somethin' waked me, an' I went an' looked out thewindo', an' there was the hull thing goin' by the house. The' was moreor less moon, an' I see the el'phant, an' the big wagins--the driverskind o' noddin' over the dashboards--an' the chariots with canvascovers--I don't know how many of 'em--an' the cages of the tigers an'lions, an' all. Wa'al, I got up the next mornin' at sun-up an' done mychores; an' after breakfust I set off fer the ten-acre lot where I wasmendin' fence. The ten-acre was the farthest off of any, Homeville way, an' I had my dinner in a tin pail so't I needn't lose no time goin' homeat noon, an', as luck would have it, the' wa'n't nobody with me thatmornin'. Wa'al, I got down to the lot an' set to work; but somehow Icouldn't git that show out o' my head nohow. As I said, I hadn't no morenotion of goin' to that cirkis 'n I had of kingdom come. I'd never hadtwo shillin' of my own in my hull life. But the more I thought on't theuneasier I got. Somethin' seemed pullin' an' haulin' at me, an' fin'ly Igin in. I allowed I'd see that percession anyway if it took a leg, an'mebbe I c'd git back 'ithout nobody missin' me. 'T any rate, I'd takethe chances of a lickin' jest once--fer that's what it meant--an' I upan' put fer the village lickity-cut. I done them four mile lively, I c'ntell ye, an' the stun-bruises never hurt me once. 

"When I got down to the village it seemed to me as if the hullpopulation of Freeland County was there. I'd never seen so many folkstogether in my life, an' fer a spell it seemed to me as if ev'rybody wasa-lookin' at me an' sayin', 'That's old Harum's boy Dave, playin'hookey, ' an' I sneaked 'round dreadin' somebody 'd give me away; but Ifin'ly found that nobody wa'n't payin' any attention to me--they wasthere to see the show, an' one red-headed boy more or less wa'n't nopertic'ler account. Wa'al, putty soon the percession hove in sight, an'the' was a reg'lar stampede among the boys, an' when it got by, I runan' ketched up with it agin, an' walked alongside the el'phant, tin pailan' all, till they fetched up inside the tent. Then I went off to oneside--it must 'a' ben about 'leven or half-past, an' eat my dinner--Ihad a devourin' appetite--an' thought I'd jes' walk round a spell, an'then light out fer home. But the' was so many things to see an'hear--all the side-show pictures of Fat Women, an' Livin' Skelitons; an'Wild Women of Madygasker, an' Wild Men of Borneo; an' snakes windin'round women's necks; hand-orgins; fellers that played the 'cordion, an'mouth-pipes, an' drum an' cymbals all to once, an' such like--that Ifergot all about the time an' the ten-acre lot, an' the stun fence, an'fust I knowed the folks was makin' fer the ticket wagin, an' the bandbegun to play inside the tent. Be I taxin' your patience over thelimit?" said David, breaking off in his story and addressing Mrs. Cullommore directly. 

"No, I guess not, " she replied; "I was jes' thinkin' of a circus I wentto once, " she added with an audible sigh. 

"Wa'al, " said David, taking a last farewell of the end of his cigar, which he threw into the grate, "mebbe what's comin' 'ill int'rist yemore 'n the rest on't has. I was standin' gawpin' 'round, list'nin' tothe band an' watchin' the folks git their tickets, when all of a suddinI felt a twitch at my hair--it had a way of workin' out of the holes inmy old chip straw hat--an' somebody says to me, 'Wa'al, sonny, what youthinkin' of?' he says. I looked up, an' who do you s'pose it was? It wasBilly P. Cullom! I knowed who he was, fer I'd seen him before, but ofcourse he didn't know me. Yes, ma'am, it was Billy P. , an' wa'n't herigged out to kill!"

The speaker paused and looked into the fire, smiling. The woman startedforward facing him, and clasping her hands, cried, "My husband! What'dhe have on?"

"Wa'al, " said David slowly and reminiscently, "near 's I c'n remember, he had on a blue broadcloth claw-hammer coat with flat gilt buttons, an'a double-breasted plaid velvet vest, an' pearl-gray pants, strapped downover his boots, which was of shiny leather, an' a high pointed collaran' blue stock with a pin in it (I remember wonderin' if it c'd be realgold), an' a yeller-white plug beaver hat. "

At the description of each article of attire Mrs. Cullom nodded herhead, with her eyes fixed on David's face, and as he concluded she brokeout breathlessly, "Oh, yes! Oh, yes! David, he wore them very sameclo'es, an' he took me to that very same show that very same night!"There was in her face a look almost of awe, as if a sight of herlong-buried past youth had been shown to her from a coffin. 

Neither spoke for a moment or two, and it was the widow who broke thesilence. As David had conjectured, she was interested at last, and satleaning forward with her hands clasped in her lap. 

"Well, " she exclaimed, "ain't ye goin' on? What did he say to ye?"

"Cert'nly, cert'nly, " responded David. "I'll tell ye near 's I c'nremember, an' I c'n remember putty near. As I told ye. I felt a twitchat my hair, an' he said, 'What be you thinkin' about, sonny?' I lookedup at him, an' looked away quick. 'I dunno, ' I says, diggin' my big toeinto the dust; an' then, I dunno how I got the spunk to, for I was shyer'n a rat, 'Guess I was thinkin' 'bout mendin' that fence up in theten-acre lot 's much 's anythin', ' I says. 

"'Ain't you goin' to the cirkis?' he says. 

"'I hain't got no money to go to cirkises, ' I says, rubbin' the dustytoes o' one foot over t' other, 'nor nothin' else, ' I says. 

"'Wa'al, ' he says, 'why don't you crawl under the canvas?'

"That kind o' riled me, shy 's I was. 'I don't crawl under no canvases, 'I says. 'If I can't go in same 's other folks, I'll stay out, ' I says, lookin' square at him fer the fust time. He wa'n't exac'ly smilin', butthe' was a look in his eyes that was the next thing to it. "

"Lordy me!" sighed Mrs. Cullom, as if to herself. "How well I canremember that look; jest as if he was laughin' at ye, an' wa'n'tlaughin' at ye, an' his arm around your neck!"

David nodded in reminiscent sympathy, and rubbed his bald poll with theback of his hand. 

"Wa'al, " interjected the widow. 

"Wa'al, " said David, resuming, "he says to me, 'Would you like to go tothe cirkis?' an' with that it occurred to me that I did want to go tothat cirkis more'n anythin' I ever wanted to before--nor since, it seemsto me. But I tell ye the truth, I was so far f'm expectin' to go 't Ireally hadn't knowed I wanted to. I looked at him, an' then down agin, an' began tenderin' up a stun-bruise on one heel agin the other instep, an' all I says was, bein' so dum'd shy, 'I dunno, ' I says. But I guesshe seen in my face what my feelin's was, fer he kind o' laughed an'pulled out half-a-dollar an' says: 'D' you think you could git a coupleo' tickits in that crowd? If you kin, I think I'll go myself, but Idon't want to git my boots all dust, ' he says. I allowed I c'd try; an'I guess them bare feet o' mine tore up the dust some gettin' over to thewagin. Wa'al, I had another scare gettin' the tickits, fer fear some onethat knowed me 'd see me with a half-a-dollar, an' think I must 'a'stole the money. But I got 'em an' carried 'em back to him, an' he took'em an' put 'em in his vest pocket, an' handed me a ten-cent piece, an'says, 'Mebbe you'll want somethin' in the way of refreshments feryourself an' mebbe the el'phant, ' he says, an' walked off toward thetent; an' I stood stun still, lookin' after him. He got off about a rodor so an' stopped an' looked back. 'Ain't you comin'?' he says. 

"'Be I goin' with _you_?' I says. 

"'Why not?' he says, ''nless you'd ruther go alone, ' an' he put hisfinger an' thumb into his vest pocket. Wa'al, ma'am, I looked at him aminute, with his shiny hat an' boots, an' fine clo'es, an' gold pin, an'thought of my ragged ole shirt, an' cotton pants, an' ole chip hat withthe brim most gone, an' my tin pail an' all. 'I ain't fit to, ' I says, ready to cry--an'--wa'al, he jes' laughed, an' says, 'Nonsense, ' hesays, 'come along. A man needn't be ashamed of his workin' clo'es, ' hesays, an' I'm dum'd if he didn't take holt of my hand, an' in we wentthat way together. "

"How like him that was!" said the widow softly. 

"Yes, ma'am, yes, ma'am, I reckon it was, " said David, nodding. 

"Wa'al, " he went on after a little pause, "I was ready to sink intothe ground with shyniss at fust, but that wore off some after a little, an' we two seen the hull show, I _tell_ ye. We walked 'round the cages, an' we fed the el'phant--that is, he bought the stuff an' I fed him. I'member--he, he, he!--'t he says, 'mind you git the right end, ' he says, an' then we got a couple o' seats, an' the doin's begun. "

CHAPTER IV

The widow was looking at David with shining eyes and devouring hiswords. All the years of trouble and sorrow and privation were wiped out, and she was back in the days of her girlhood. Ah, yes! how well sheremembered him as he looked that very day--so handsome, so splendidlydressed, so debonair; and how proud she had been to sit by his side thatnight, observed and envied of all the village girls. 

"I ain't goin' to go over the hull show, " proceeded David, "well 's Iremember it. The' didn't nothin' git away from me that afternoon, an'once I come near to stickin' a piece o' gingerbread into my ear 'stid o'my mouth. I had my ten-cent piece that Billy P. Give me, but he wouldn'tlet me buy nothin'; an' when the gingerbread man come along he says, 'Air ye hungry, Dave? (I'd told him my name), air ye hungry?' Wa'al, Iwas a growin' boy, an' I was hungry putty much all the time. He boughttwo big squares an' gin me one, an' when I'd swallered it, he says, 'Guess you better tackle this one too, ' he says, 'I've dined. ' I didn'texac'ly know what 'dined' meant, but--he, he, he, he!--I tackled it, "and David smacked his lips in memory. 

"Wa'al, " he went on, "we done the hull programmy--gingerbread, lemonade--_pink_ lemonade, an' he took some o' that--pop corn, peanuts, pep'mint candy, cin'mun candy--scat my----! an' he payin' ferev'rythin'--I thought he was jes' made o' money! An' I remember how wetalked about all the doin's; the ridin', an' jumpin', an' summersettin', an' all--fer he'd got all the shyniss out of me for the time--an' once Ilooked up at him, an' he looked down at me with that curious look in hiseyes an' put his hand on my shoulder. Wa'al, now, I tell ye, I had aqueer, crinkly feelin' go up an' down my back, an' I like to up an'cried. "

"Dave, " said the widow, "I kin see you two as if you was settin' therefront of me. He was alwus like that. Oh, my! Oh, my! David, " she addedsolemnly, while two tears rolled slowly down her wrinkled face, "welived together, husban' an' wife, fer seven year, an' he never give me across word. "

"I don't doubt it a mossel, " said David simply, leaning over and pokingthe fire, which operation kept his face out of her sight and wasprolonged rather unduly. Finally he straightened up and, blowing hisnose as it were a trumpet, said:

"Wa'al, the cirkis fin'ly come to an end, an' the crowd hustled to gitout 's if they was afraid the tent 'd come down on 'em. I got kind o'mixed up in 'em, an' somebody tried to git my tin pail, or I thought hedid, an' the upshot was that I lost sight o' Billy P. , an' couldn't makeout to ketch a glimpse of him nowhere. An' _then_ I kind o' come down toearth, kerchug! It was five o'clock, an' I had better 'n four mile towalk--mostly up hill--an' if I knowed anything 'bout the old man, an' Ithought I _did_, I had the all-firedist lickin' ahead of me 't I'd evergot, an' that was sayin' a good deal. But, boy 's I was, I had gritenough to allow 't was wuth it, an' off I put. "

"Did he lick ye much?" inquired Mrs. Cullom anxiously. 

"Wa'al, " replied David, "he done his best. He was layin' fer me when Istruck the front gate--I knowed it wa'n't no use to try the back door, an' he took me by the ear--most pulled it off--an' marched me off to thebarn shed without a word. I never see him so mad. Seemed like hecouldn't speak fer a while, but fin'ly he says, 'Where you ben all day?'

"'Down t' the village, ' I says. 

"'What you ben up to down there?' he says. 

"'Went to the cirkis, ' I says, thinkin' I might 's well make a cleanbreast on't. 

"'Where 'd you git the money?' he says. 

"'Mr. Cullom took me, ' I says. 

"'You lie, ' he says. 'You stole the money somewheres, an' I'll trounceit out of ye, if I kill ye, ' he says. 

"Wa'al, " said David, twisting his shoulders in recollection, "I won'tharrer up your feelin's. 'S I told you, he done his best. I was willin'to quit long 'fore he was. Fact was, he overdone it a little, an' he hadto throw water in my face 'fore he got through; an' he done that asthorough as the other thing. I was somethin' like a chickin jest out o'the cistern. I crawled off to bed the best I could, but I didn't lay onmy back fer a good spell, I c'n tell ye. "

"You poor little critter, " exclaimed Mrs. Cullom sympathetically. "Youpoor little critter!"

"'T was more'n wuth it, Mis' Cullom, " said David emphatically. "I'd hadthe most enjoy'ble day, I might say the only enjoy'ble day, 't I'd everhad in my hull life, an' I hain't never fergot it. I got over thelickin' in course of time, but I've ben enjoyin' that cirkis fer fortyyear. The' wa'n't but one thing to hender, an' that's this, that Ihain't never ben able to remember--an' to this day I lay awake nightstryin' to--that I said 'Thank ye' to Billy P. , an' I never seen himafter that day. "

"How's that?" asked Mrs. Cullom. 

"Wa'al, " was the reply, "that day was the turnin' point with me. Thenext night I lit out with what duds I c'd git together, an' as much grub's I could pack in that tin pail; an' the next time I see the old houseon Buxton Hill the' hadn't ben no Harums in it fer years. "

Here David rose from his chair, yawned and stretched himself, and stoodwith his back to the fire. The widow looked up anxiously into his face. "Is that all?" she asked after a while. 

"Wa'al, it is an' it ain't. I've got through yarnin' about Dave Harumat any rate, an' mebbe we'd better have a little confab on your matters, seem' 't I've got you 'way up here such a mornin' 's this. I gen'ally dobus'nis fust an' talkin' afterward, " he added, "but I kind o' got togoin' an' kept on this time. "

He put his hand into the breast pocket of his coat and took out threepapers, which he shuffled in review as if to verify their identity, andthen held them in one hand, tapping them softly upon the palm of theother, as if at a loss how to begin. The widow sat with her eyesfastened upon the papers, trembling with nervous apprehension. Presentlyhe broke the silence. 

"About this here morgige o' your'n, " he said. "I sent ye word that Iwanted to close the matter up, an' seem' 't you're here an' come ferthat purpose, I guess we'd better make a job on't. The' ain't no timelike the present, as the sayin' is. "

"I s'pose it'll hev to be as you say, " said the widow in a shakingvoice. 

"Mis' Cullom, " said David solemnly, "_you_ know, an' I know, that I'vegot the repitation of bein' a hard, graspin', schemin' man. Mebbe I be. Mebbe I've ben hard done by all my hull life, an' have had to be; an'mebbe, now 't I've got ahead some, it's got to be second nature, an' Ican't seem to help it. 'Bus'nis is bus'nis' ain't part of the goldenrule, I allow, but the way it gen'ally runs, fur 's I've found out, is, 'Do unto the other feller the way he'd like to do unto you, an' do itfust. ' But, if you want to keep this thing a-runnin' as it's goin' onnow fer a spell longer, say one year, or two, or even three, you may, only I've got somethin' to say to ye 'fore ye elect. "

"Wa'al, " said the poor woman, "I expect it 'd only be pilin' up wrathagin the day o' wrath. I can't pay the int'rist now without starvin', an' I hain't got no one to bid in the prop'ty fer me if it was to besold. "

"Mis' Cullom, " said David, "I said I'd got somethin' more to tell ye, an' if, when I git through, you don't think I've treated you right, includin' this mornin's confab, I hope you'll fergive me. It's this, an'I'm the only person livin' that 's knowin' to it, an' in fact I may saythat I'm the only person that ever was really knowin' to it. It wasbefore you was married, an' I'm sure he never told ye, fer I don't doubthe fergot all about it, but your husband, Billy P. Cullom, that was, made a small investment once on a time, yes, ma'am, he did, an' in hiskind of careless way it jes' slipped his mind. The amount of cap'tal heput in wa'n't large, but the rate of int'rist was uncommon high. Now, henever drawed no dividends on't, an' they've ben 'cumulatin' fer fortyyear, more or less, at compound int'rist. "

[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III]

The widow started forward, as if to rise from her seat. David put hishand out gently and said, "Jest a minute, Mis' Cullom, jest a minute, till I git through. Part o' that cap'tal, " he resumed, "consistin' of aquarter an' some odd cents, was invested in the cirkis bus'nis, an' therest on't--the cap'tal, an' all the cash cap'tal that I started inbus'nis with--was the ten cents your husband give me that day, an'here, " said David, striking the papers in his left hand with the back ofhis right, "_here_ is the _dividends_! This here second morgige, notbein' on record, may jest as well go onto the fire--it's gettin'low--an' here's a satisfaction piece which I'm goin' to execute now, that'll clear the thousan' dollar one. Come in here, John, " he calledout. 

The widow stared at David for a moment speechless, but as thesignificance of his words dawned upon her, the blood flushed darkly inher face. She sprang to her feet and, throwing up her arms, cried out:"My Lord! My Lord! Dave! Dave Harum! Is it true?--tell me it's true! Youain't foolin' me, air ye, Dave? You wouldn't fool a poor old woman thatnever done ye no harm, nor said a mean word agin ye, would ye? Is ittrue? an' is my place clear? an' I don't owe nobody anythin'--I mean, nomoney? Tell it agin. Oh, tell it agin! Oh, Dave! it's too good to betrue! Oh! Oh! Oh, _my_! an' here I be cryin' like a great baby, an', an'"--fumbling in her pocket--"I do believe I hain't got nohank'chif. --Oh, thank ye, " to John; "I'll do it up an' send it backto-morrer. --Oh, what made ye do it, Dave?"

"Set right down an' take it easy, Mis' Cullom, " said David soothingly, putting his hands on her shoulders and gently pushing her back into herchair. "Set right down an' take it easy. --Yes, " to John, "I acknowledgethat I signed that. "

He turned to the widow, who sat wiping her eyes with John'shandkerchief. 

"Yes, ma'am, " he said, "it's as true as anythin' kin be. I wouldn't nomore fool ye, ye know I wouldn't, don't ye? than I'd--jerk a hoss, " heasseverated. "Your place is clear now, an' by this time to-morro' the'won't be the scratch of a pen agin it. I'll send the satisfaction overfer record fust thing in the mornin'. "

"But, Dave, " protested the widow, "I s'pose ye know what you'redoin'----?"

"Yes, " he interposed, "I cal'late I do, putty near. You ast me why Idone it, an' I'll tell ye if ye want to know. I'm payin' off an oldscore, an' gettin' off cheap, too. That's what I'm doin'! I thought I'dhinted up to it putty plain, seem' 't I've talked till my jaws ache; butI'll sum it up to ye if ye like. "

He stood with his feet aggressively wide apart, one hand in his trouserspocket, and holding in the other the "morgige, " which he waved from timeto time in emphasis. 

[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III]

"You c'n estimate, I reckon, " he began, "what kind of a bringin'-up Ihad, an' what a poor, mis'able, God-fersaken, scairt-to-death littleforlorn critter I was; put upon, an' snubbed, an' jawed at till I'd cometo believe myself--what was rubbed into me the hull time--that I was themost all-'round no-account animul that was ever made out o' dust, an'wa'n't ever likely to be no diff'rent. Lookin' back, it seems to methat--exceptin' of Polly--I never had a kind word said to me, nor aday's fun. Your husband, Billy P. Cullom, was the fust man that evertreated me human up to that time. He give me the only enjoy'ble time 'tI'd ever had, an' I don't know 't anythin' 's ever equaled it since. Hespent money on me, an' he give me money to spend--that had never had acent to call my own--_an'_, Mis' Cullom, he took me by the hand, an' hetalked to me, an' he gin me the fust notion 't I'd ever had that mebbe Iwa'n't only the scum o' the earth, as I'd ben teached to believe. I toldye that that day was the turnin' point of my life. Wa'al, it wa'n't thelickin' I got, though that had somethin' to do with it, but I'd neverhave had the spunk to run away 's I did if it hadn't ben for theheartenin' Billy P. Gin me, an' never knowed it, an' never knowed it, "he repeated mournfully. "I alwus allowed to pay some o' that debt backto him, but seein' 's I can't do that, Mis' Cullom, I'm glad an'thankful to pay it to his widdo'. "

"Mebbe he knows, Dave, " said Mrs. Cullom softly. 

"Mebbe he does, " assented David in a low voice. 

Neither spoke for a time, and then the widow said: "David, I can'tthank ye 's I ought ter--I don't know how--but I'll pray fer ye nightan' mornin' 's long 's I got breath. An', Dave, " she added humbly, "Iwant to take back what I said about the Lord's providin'. "

She sat a moment, lost in her thoughts, and then exclaimed, "Oh, itdon't seem 's if I c'd wait to write to Charley!"

"I've wrote to Charley, " said David, "an' told him to sell out there an'come home, an' to draw on me fer any balance he needed to move him. I'vegot somethin' in my eye that'll be easier an' better payin' thanfightin' grasshoppers an' drought in Kansas. "

"Dave Harum!" cried the widow, rising to her feet, "you ought to 'a' bena king!"

"Wa'al, " said David with a grin, "I don't know much about the kingin'bus'nis, but I guess a cloth cap 'n' a hoss whip 's more 'n my line thana crown an' scepter. An' now, " he added, "'s we've got through 'th ourbus'nis, s'pose you step over to the house an' see Polly. She'sexpectin' ye to dinner. Oh, yes, " replying to the look of deprecation inher face as she viewed her shabby frock, "you an' Polly c'n prink upsome if you want to, but we can't take 'No' fer an answer Chris'mustday, clo'es or no clo'es. "

"I'd really like ter, " said Mrs. Cullom. 

"All right then, " said David cheerfully. "The path is swep' by thistime, I guess, an' I'll see ye later. Oh, by the way, " he exclaimed, "the's somethin' I fergot. I want to make you a proposition, ruther anonusual one, but seem' ev'rythin' is as 't is, perhaps you'll considerit. "

"Dave, " declared the widow, "if I could, an' you ast for it, I'd give yeanythin' on the face o' this mortal globe!"

"Wa'al, " said David, nodding and smiling, "I thought that mebbe, long 'syou got the int'rist of that investment we ben talkin' about, you'd letme keep what's left of the princ'pal. Would ye like to see it?"

Mrs. Cullom looked at him with a puzzled expression without replying. 

David took from his pocket a large wallet, secured by a strap, and, opening it, extracted something enveloped in a much faded brown paper. Unfolding this, he displayed upon his broad fat palm an old silver dimeblack with age. 

"There's the cap'tal, " he said. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER V

"Why, Mis' Cullom, I'm real glad to see ye. Come right in, " said Mrs. Bixbee as she drew the widow into the "wing settin' room, " and proceededto relieve her of her wraps and her bundle. "Set right here by the firewhile I take these things of your'n into the kitchen to dry 'em out. I'll be right back"; and she bustled out of the room. When she came backMrs. Cullom was sitting with her hands in her lap, and there was in hereyes an expression of smiling peace that was good to see. 

Mrs. Bixbee drew up a chair, and seating herself, said: "Wa'al, I don'tknow when I've seen ye to git a chance to speak to ye, an' I was realpleased when David said you was goin' to be here to dinner. An' my! howwell you're lookin'--more like Cynthy Sweetland than I've seen ye fer Idon't know when; an' yet, " she added, looking curiously at her guest, "you 'pear somehow as if you'd ben cryin'. "

"You're real kind, I'm sure, " responded Mrs. Cullom, replying to theother's welcome and remarks _seriatim_; "I guess, though, I don't lookmuch like Cynthy Sweetland, if I do feel twenty years younger 'n I did awhile ago; an' I have ben cryin', I allow, but not fer sorro', PollyHarum, " she exclaimed, giving the other her maiden name. "Your brotherDave comes putty nigh to bein' an angel!"

"Wa'al, " replied Mrs. Bixbee with a twinkle, "I reckon Dave might hevto be fixed up some afore he come out in that pertic'ler shape, but, "she added impressively, "es fur as bein' a _man_ goes, he's 'bout 'sgood 's they make 'em. I know folks thinks he's a hard bargainer, an'close-fisted, an' some on 'em that ain't fit to lick up his tracks saysmore'n that. He's got his own ways, I'll allow, but down at bottom, an'all through, I know the' ain't no better man livin'. No, ma'am, the'ain't, an' what he's ben to me, Cynthy Cullom, nobody knows butme--an'--an'--mebbe the Lord--though I hev seen the time, " she saidtentatively, "when it seemed to me 't I knowed more about my affairs 'nHe did, " and she looked doubtfully at her companion, who had beenfollowing her with affirmative and sympathetic nods, and now drew herchair a little closer, and said softly: "Yes, yes, I know. I ben puttydoubtful an' rebellious myself a good many times, but seems now as if Hehad had me in His mercy all the time. " Here Aunt Polly's sense of humorasserted itself. "What's Dave ben up to now?" she asked. 

And then the widow told her story, with tears and smiles, and the keenenjoyment which we all have in talking about ourselves to a sympatheticlistener like Aunt Polly, whose interjections pointed and illuminatedthe narrative. When it was finished she leaned forward and kissed Mrs. Cullom on the cheek. 

"I can't tell ye how glad I be for ye, " she said; "but if I'd knownthat David held that morgige, I could hev told ye ye needn't hev worriedyourself a mite. He wouldn't never have taken your prop'ty, more'n he'drob a hen-roost. But he done the thing his own way--kind o' fetched itround fer a Merry Chris'mus, didn't he?"

CHAPTER VI

David's house stood about a hundred feet back from the street, facingthe east. The main body of the house was of two stories (through whichran a deep bay in front), with mansard roof. On the south were twostories of the "wing, " in which were the "settin' room, " Aunt Polly'sroom, and, above, David's quarters. Ten minutes or so before one o'clockJohn rang the bell at the front door. 

"Sairy's busy, " said Mrs. Bixbee apologetically as she let him in, "an'so I come to the door myself. "

"Thank you very much, " said John. "Mr. Harum told me to come over alittle before one, but perhaps I ought to have waited a few minuteslonger. "

"No, it's all right, " she replied, "for mebbe you'd like to wash an'fix up 'fore dinner, so I'll jes' show ye where to, " and she led the wayupstairs and into the "front parlor bedroom. "

"There, " she said, "make yourself comf'table, an' dinner 'll be ready inabout ten minutes. "

For a moment John mentally rubbed his eyes. Then he turned and caughtboth of Mrs. Bixbee's hands and looked at her, speechless. When he foundwords he said: "I don't know what to say, nor how to thank you properly. I don't believe you know how kind this is. "

"Don't say nothin' about it, " she protested, but with a look of greatsatisfaction. "I done it jes' t' relieve my mind, because ever sence youfus' come I ben worryin' over your bein' at that nasty tavern, " and shemade a motion to go. 

"You and your brother, " said John earnestly, still holding her hands, "have made me a gladder and happier man this Christmas day than I havebeen for a very long time. "

"I'm glad on't, " she said heartily, "an' I hope you'll be comf'table an'contented here. I must go now an' help Sairy dish up. Come down to thesettin' room when you're ready, " and she gave his hands a littlesqueeze. 

"Aunt Po----, I beg pardon, Mrs. Bixbee, " said John, moved by a suddenimpulse, "do you think you could find it in your heart to complete myhappiness by giving me a kiss? It's Christmas, you know, " he addedsmilingly. 

[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III]

Aunt Polly colored to the roots of her hair. "Wa'al, " she said, with alittle laugh, "seein' 't I'm old enough to be your mother, I guess 'twon't hurt me none, " and as she went down the stairs she softly rubbedher lips with the side of her forefinger. 

John understood now why David had looked out of the bank window so oftenthat morning. All his belongings were in Aunt Polly's best bedroom, having been moved over from the Eagle while he and David had been in theoffice. A delightful room it was, in immeasurable contrast to hissqualid surroundings at that hostelry. The spacious bed, with its snowycounterpane and silk patchwork "comf'table" folded on the foot, thebright fire in the open stove, the big bureau and glass, the softcarpet, the table for writing and reading standing in the bay, his bookson the broad mantel, and his dressing things laid out ready to his hand, not to mention an ample supply of _dry_ towels on the rack. 

The poor fellow's life during the weeks which he had lived in Homevillehad been utterly in contrast with any previous experience. Neverthelesshe had tried to make the best of it, and to endure the monotony, thedullness, the entire lack of companionship and entertainment with whatphilosophy he could muster. The hours spent in the office were the bestpart of the day. He could manage to find occupation for all of them, though a village bank is not usually a scene of active bustle. Many ofthe people who did business there diverted him somewhat, and most ofthem seemed never too much in a hurry to stand around and talk the sortof thing that interested them. After John had got acquainted with hisduties and the people he came in contact with, David gave less personalattention to the affairs of the bank; but he was in and out frequentlyduring the day, and rarely failed to interest his cashier with hisobservations and remarks. 

But the long winter evenings had been very bad. After supper, a mealwhich revolted every sense, there had been as many hours to be gotthrough with as he found wakeful, an empty stomach often adding to thenumber of them, and the only resource for passing the time had beenreading, which had often been well-nigh impossible for sheer physicaldiscomfort. As has been remarked, the winter climate of the middleportion of New York State is as bad as can be imagined. His light was akerosene lamp of half-candle power, and his appliance for warmthconsisted of a small wood stove, which (as David would have expressedit) "took two men an' a boy" to keep in action, and was either red hotor exhausted. 

As from the depths of a spacious lounging chair he surveyed his newsurroundings, and contrasted them with those from which he had beenrescued out of pure kindness, his heart was full, and it can hardly beimputed to him as a weakness that for a moment his eyes filled withtears of gratitude and happiness--no less. 

Indeed, there were four happy people at David's table that Christmasday. Aunt Polly had "smartened up" Mrs. Cullom with collar and cuffs, and in various ways which the mind of man comprehendeth not in detail;and there had been some arranging of her hair as well, which altogetherhad so transformed and transfigured her that John thought that he shouldhardly have known her for the forlorn creature whom he had encounteredin the morning. And as he looked at the still fine eyes, large andbrown, and shining for the first time in many a year with a soft lightof happiness, he felt that he could understand how it was that Billy P. Had married the village girl. 

Mrs. Bixbee was grand in black silk and lace collar fastened with ashell-cameo pin not quite as large as a saucer, and John caught thesparkle of a diamond on her plump left hand--David's Christmasgift--with regard to which she had spoken apologetically to Mrs. Cullom:

"I told David that I was ever so much obliged to him, but I didn't wanta dimun' more'n a cat wanted a flag, an' I thought it was jes' throwin'away money. But he would have it--said I c'd sell it an' keep out thepoor-house some day, mebbe. "

David had not made much change in his usual raiment, but he was shavedto the blood, and his round red face shone with soap and satisfaction. As he tucked his napkin into his shirt collar, Sairy brought in thetureen of oyster soup, and he remarked, as he took his first spoonful ofthe stew, that he was "hungry 'nough t' eat a graven imidge, " acondition that John was able to sympathize with after his two days offasting on crackers and such provisions as he could buy at Purse's. Itwas, on the whole, he reflected, the most enjoyable dinner that he everate. Never was such a turkey; and to see it give way under David'sskillful knife--wings, drumsticks, second joints, side bones, breast--was an elevating and memorable experience. And such potatoes, mashed in cream; such boiled onions, turnips, Hubbard squash, succotash, stewed tomatoes, celery, cranberries, "currant jell!" Oh! and to "topoff" with, a mince pie to die for and a pudding (new to John, but justyou try it some time) of steamed Indian meal and fruit, with a sauce ofcream sweetened with shaved maple sugar. 

"What'll you have?" said David to Mrs. Cullom, "dark meat? white meat?"

"Anything, " she replied meekly, "I'm not partic'ler. Most any part of aturkey 'll taste good, I guess. "

"All right, " said David. "Don't care means a little o' both. I alwusknow what to give Polly--piece o' the second jint an' thelast-thing-over-the-fence. Nice 'n rich fer scraggly folks, " heremarked. "How fer you, John?--little o' both, eh?" and he heaped theplate till our friend begged him to keep something for himself. 

"Little too much is jes' right, " he asserted. 

When David had filled the plates and handed them along--Sairy was forbringing in and taking out; they did their own helping to vegetables and"passin'"--he hesitated a moment, and then got out of his chair andstarted in the direction of the kitchen door. 

"What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Bixbee in surprise. "Where you goin'?"

"Woodshed!" said David. 

"Woodshed!" she exclaimed, making as if to rise and follow. 

"You set still, " said David. "Somethin' I fergot. "

"What on earth?" she exclaimed, with an air of annoyance andbewilderment. "What do you want in the woodshed? Can't you set down an'let Sairy git it fer ye?"

"No, " he asserted with a grin. "Sairy might sqush it. It must be puttymeller by this time. " And out he went. 

"Manners!" ejaculated Mrs. Bixbee. "You'll think (to John) we're reg'lerheathin'. "

"I guess not, " said John, smiling and much amused. 

Presently Sairy appeared with four tumblers which she distributed, andwas followed by David bearing a bottle. He seated himself and began astruggle to unwire the same with an ice-pick. Aunt Polly leaned forwardwith a look of perplexed curiosity. 

"What you got there?" she asked. 

"Vewve Clikot's universal an' suv'rin remedy, " said David, reading thelabel and bringing the corners of his eye and mouth almost together in awink to John, "fer toothache, earache, burns, scalds, warts, dispepsy, fallin' o' the hair, windgall, ringbone, spavin, disapp'intedaffections, an' pips in hens, " and out came the cork with a "_wop_, " atwhich both the ladies, even Mrs. Cullom, jumped and cried out. 

"David Harum, " declared his sister with conviction, "I believe thetthat's a bottle of champagne. "

"If it ain't, " said David, pouring into his tumbler, "I ben swindled outo' four shillin', " and he passed the bottle to John, who held it upinquiringly, looking at Mrs. Bixbee. 

"No, thank ye, " she said with a little toss of the head, "I'm a son o'temp'rence. I don't believe, " she remarked to Mrs. Cullom, "thet thatbottle ever cost _less_ 'n a dollar. " At which remarks David apparently"swallered somethin' the wrong way, " and for a moment or two was unableto proceed with his dinner. Aunt Polly looked at him suspiciously. Itwas her experience that, in her intercourse with her brother, he oftenlaughed utterly without reason--so far as she could see. 

"I've always heard it was dreadful expensive, " remarked Mrs. Cullom. 

"Let me give you some, " said John, reaching toward her with the bottle. Mrs. Cullom looked first at Mrs. Bixbee and then at David. 

"I don't know, " she said. "I never tasted any. "

"Take a little, " said David, nodding approvingly. 

"Just a swallow, " said the widow, whose curiosity had got the better ofscruples. She took a swallow of the wine. 

"How do you like it, " asked David. 

"Well, " she said as she wiped her eyes, into which the gas had driventhe tears, "I guess I could get along if I couldn't have it regular. "

"Don't taste good?" suggested David with a grin. 

"Well, " she replied, "I never did care any great for cider, and thistastes to me about as if I was drinkin' cider an' snuffin' horseredishat one and the same time. "

"How's that, John?" said David, laughing. 

"I suppose it's an acquired taste, " said John, returning the laugh andtaking a mouthful of the wine with infinite relish. "I don't think Iever enjoyed a glass of wine so much, or, " turning to Aunt Polly, "everenjoyed a dinner so much, " which statement completely mollified herfeelings, which had been the least bit in the world "set edgeways. "

"Mebbe your app'tite's got somethin' to do with it, " said David, shoveling a knife-load of good things into his mouth. "Polly, this youngman's ben livin' on crackers an' salt herrin' fer a week. "

"My land!" cried Mrs. Bixbee with an expression of horror. "Is thatreelly so? 'T ain't now, reelly?"

"Not quite so bad as that, " John answered, smiling; "but Mrs. Elrighthas been ill for a couple of days and--well, I have been foraging aroundPurse's store a little. "

"Wa'al, of all the mean shames!" exclaimed Aunt Polly indignantly. "David Harum, you'd ought to be ridic'lous t' allow such a thing. "

[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III]

"Wa'al, I never!" said David, holding his knife and fork straight upin either fist as they rested on the table, and staring at his sister. "I believe if the meetin'-house roof was to blow off you'd lay it on tome somehow. I hain't ben runnin' the Eagle tavern fer quite aconsid'able while. You got the wrong pig by the ear as usual. Jes' youpitch into him, " pointing with his fork to John. "It's his funeral, ifanybody's. "

"Wa'al, " said Aunt Polly, addressing John in a tone of injury, "I dothink you might have let somebody know; I think you'd ortter 'veknown----"

"Yes, Mrs. Bixbee, " he interrupted, "I did know how kind you are andwould have been, and if matters had gone on so much longer I should haveappealed to you, I should have indeed; but really, " he added, smiling ather, "a dinner like this is worth fasting a week for. "

"Wa'al, " she said, mollified again, "you won't git no more herrin''nless you ask for 'em. "

"That is just what your brother said this morning, " replied John, looking at David with a laugh. 

CHAPTER VII

The meal proceeded in silence for a few minutes. Mrs. Cullom had saidbut little, but John noticed that her diction was more conventional thanin her talk with David and himself in the morning, and that her mannerat the table was distinctly refined, although she ate with apparentappetite, not to say hunger. Presently she said, with an air of makingconversation, "I suppose you've always lived in the city, Mr. Lenox?"

"It has always been my home, " he replied, "but I have been away a gooddeal. "

"I suppose folks in the city go to theaters a good deal, " she remarked. 

"They have a great many opportunities, " said John, wondering what shewas leading up to. But he was not to discover, for David broke in with achuckle. 

"Ask Polly, Mis' Cullom, " he said. "She c'n tell ye all about thetheater, Polly kin. " Mrs. Cullom looked from David to Mrs. Bixbee, whoseface was suffused. 

"Tell her, " said David, with a grin. 

"I wish you'd shet up, " she exclaimed. "I sha'n't do nothin' of thesort. "

"Ne' mind, " said David cheerfully. "_I'll_ tell ye, Mis' Cullom. "

"Dave Harum!" expostulated Mrs. Bixbee, but he proceeded without heed ofher protest. 

"Polly an' I, " he said, "went down to New York one spring some yearsago. Her nerves was some wore out 'long of diff'rences with Sairy aboutclearin' up the woodshed, an' bread risin's, an' not bein' able to suitherself up to Purse's in the qual'ty of silk velvit she wanted fer aSunday-go-to-meetin' gown, an' I thought a spell off 'd do her good. Wa'al, the day after we got there I says to her while we was havin'breakfust--it was picked-up el'phant on toast, near 's I c'n remember, wa'n't it, Polly?"

"That's as near the truth as most o' the rest on't so fur, " said Pollywith a sniff. 

"Wa'al, I says to her, " he proceeded, untouched by her scorn, "'How'dyou like to go t' the theater? You hain't never ben, ' I says, 'an' nowyou're down here you may jes' as well see somethin' while you got achanst, ' I says. Up to that _time_, " he remarked, as it were in passing, "she'd ben somewhat pre_juced_ 'ginst theaters, an'----"

"Wa'al, " Mrs. Bixbee broke in, "I guess what we see that night wascal'lated----"

"You hold on, " he interposed. "I'm tellin' this story. You had a chanstto an' wouldn't. Anyway, " he resumed, "she allowed she'd try it once, an' we agreed we'd go somewheres that night. But somethin' happened toput it out o' my mind, an' I didn't think on't agin till I got back tothe hotel fer supper. So I went to the feller at the news-stand an'says, 'Got any show-tickits fer to-night?'

"'Theater?' he says. 

"'I reckon so, ' I says. 

"'Wa'al, ' he says, 'I hain't got nothin' now but two seats fer"Clyanthy. "'

"'Is it a good show?' I says--'moral, an' so on? I'm goin' to take mysister, an' she's a little pertic'ler about some things, ' I says. Hekind o' grinned, the feller did. 'I've took my wife twice, an' she'sputty pertic'ler herself, ' he says, laughin'. "

"She must 'a' ben, " remarked Mrs. Bixbee with a sniff that spokevolumes of her opinion of "the feller's wife. " David emitted a chuckle. 

"Wa'al, " he continued, "I took the tickits on the feller's recommend, an' the fact of his wife's bein' so pertic'ler, an' after supper wewent. It was a mighty handsome place inside, gilded an' carved all overlike the outside of a cirkis wagin, an' when we went in the orchestrywas playin' an' the people was comin' in, an' after we'd set a fewminutes I says to Polly, 'What do you think on't?' I says. 

"'I don't see anythin' very unbecomin' so fur, an' the people looksrespectable enough, ' she says. 

"'No jail birds in sight fur 's ye c'n see so fur, be they?' I says. He, he, he, he!"

"You needn't make me out more of a gump 'n I was, " protested Mrs. Bixbee. "An' you was jest as----" David held up his finger at her. 

"Don't you sp'ile the story by discountin' the sequil. Wa'al, puttysoon the band struck up some kind of a dancin' tune, an' the curt'inwent up, an' a girl come prancin' down to the footlights an' begunsingin' an' dancin', an', scat my----! to all human appearances you c'd'a' covered ev'ry dum thing she had on with a postage stamp. " John stolea glance at Mrs. Cullom. She was staring at the speaker with wide-openeyes of horror and amazement. 

"I guess I wouldn't go very _fur_ into pertic'lers, " said Mrs. Bixbee ina warning tone. 

David bent his head down over his plate and shook from head to foot, andit was nearly a minute before he was able to go on. "Wa'al, " he said, "Iheard Polly give a kind of a gasp an' a snort, 's if some one 'd throwedwater 'n her face. But she didn't say nothin', an', I swan! I didn'tdast to look at her fer a spell; an' putty soon in come a hull crowdmore girls that had left their clo'es in their trunks or somewhere, singin', an' dancin', an' weavin' 'round on the stage, an' after a fewminutes I turned an' looked at Polly. He, he, he, he!"

"David Harum, " cried Mrs. Bixbee, "ef you're goin' to discribe any moreo' them scand'lous goin's on I sh'll take my victuals into the kitchen. _I_ didn't see no more of 'em, " she added to Mrs. Cullom and John, "after that fust trollop appeared. "

"I don't believe she did, " said David, "fer when I turned she set therewith her eyes shut tighter 'n a drum, an' her mouth shut too so's hernose an' chin most come together, an' her face was red enough so 't astreak o' red paint 'd 'a' made a white mark on it. 'Polly, ' I says, 'I'm afraid you ain't gettin' the wuth o' your money. '

"'David Harum, ' she says, with her mouth shut all but a little place inthe corner toward me, 'if you don't take me out o' this place, I'll gowithout ye, ' she says. 

"'Don't you think you c'd stan' it a little longer?' I says. 'Mebbethey've sent home fer their clo'es, ' I says. He, he, he, he! But withthat she jes' give a hump to start, an' I see she meant bus'nis. WhenPolly Bixbee, " said David impressively, "puts that foot o' her'n _down_somethin's got to sqush, an' don't you fergit it. " Mrs. Bixbee made noacknowledgment of this tribute to her strength of character. John lookedat David. 

"Yes, " he said, with a solemn bend of the head, as if in answer to aquestion, "I squshed. I says to her, 'All right. Don't make nodisturbance more'n you c'n help, an' jes' put your hank'chif up to yournose 's if you had the nosebleed, ' an' we squeezed out of the seats, an'sneaked up the aisle, an' by the time we got out into the entry I guessmy face was as red as Polly's. It couldn't 'a' ben no redder, " he added. 

"You got a putty fair color as a gen'ral thing, " remarked Mrs. Bixbeedryly. 

"Yes, ma'am; yes, ma'am, I expect that's so, " he assented, "but I got anextra coat o' tan follerin' you out o' that theater. When we got outinto the entry one o' them fellers that stands 'round steps up to me an'says, 'Ain't your ma feelin' well?' he says. 'Her feelin's has ben atrifle rumpled up, ' I says, 'an' that gen'ally brings on the nosebleed, 'an' then, " said David, looking over Mrs. Bixbee's head, "the feller wentan' leaned up agin the wall. "

"David Harum!" exclaimed Mrs. Bixbee, "that's a downright _lie_. Younever spoke to a soul, an'--an'--ev'rybody knows 't I ain't more 'n fouryears older 'n you be. "

"Wa'al, you see, Polly, " her brother replied in a smooth tone ofmeasureless aggravation, "the feller wa'n't acquainted with us, an' heonly went by appearances. "

Aunt Polly appealed to John: "Ain't he enough to--to--I d' know what?"

"I really don't see how you live with him, " said John, laughing. 

Mrs. Cullom's face wore a faint smile, as if she were conscious thatsomething amusing was going on, but was not quite sure what. The widowtook things seriously for the most part, poor soul. 

"I reckon you haven't followed theater-goin' much after that, " she saidto her hostess. 

"No, ma'am, " Mrs. Bixbee replied with emphasis, "you better believe Ihain't. I hain't never thought of it sence without tinglin' all over. Ibelieve, " she asserted, "that David 'd 'a' stayed the thing out if ithadn't ben fer me; but as true 's you live, Cynthy Cullom, I was so'shamed at the little 't I did see that when I come to go to bed I tookmy clo'es off in the dark. "

David threw back his head and roared with laughter. Mrs. Bixbee lookedat him with unmixed scorn. "If I couldn't help makin' a----" she began, "I'd----"

"Oh, Lord! Polly, " David broke in, "be sure 'n wrap up when you goout. If you sh'd ketch cold an' your sense o' the ridic'lous sh'd strikein you'd be a dead-'n'-goner sure. " This was treated with the silentcontempt which it deserved, and David fell upon his dinner with theremark that "he guessed he'd better make up fer lost time, " though as amatter of fact while he had done most of the talking he had by no meanssuspended another function of his mouth while so engaged. 

[Illustration]

For a time nothing more was said which did not relate to thereplenishment of plates, glasses, and cups. Finally David cleaned up hisplate with his knife blade and a piece of bread, and pushed it away witha sigh of fullness, mentally echoed by John. 

"I feel 's if a child could play with me, " he remarked. "What's comin'now, Polly?"

"The's a mince pie, an' Injun puddin' with maple sugar an' cream, an'ice cream, " she replied. 

"Mercy on us!" he exclaimed. "I guess I'll have to go an' jump up an'down on the verandy. How do you feel, John? I s'pose you got so used tothem things at the Eagle 't you won't have no stomech fer 'em, eh?Wa'al, fetch 'em along. May 's well die fer the ole sheep 's the lamb;but, Polly Bixbee, if you've got designs on my life, I may 's well tellye right now 't I've left all my prop'ty to the Institution ferDisappinted Hoss Swappers. "

"That's putty near next o' kin, ain't it?" was the unexpected rejoinderof the injured Polly. 

"Wa'al, scat my----!" exclaimed David, hugely amused, "if Polly Bixbeehain't made a joke! You'll git yourself into the almanic, Polly, fustthing you know. " Sairy brought in the pie and then the pudding. 

"John, " said David, "if you've got a pencil an' a piece o' paper handyI'd like to have ye take down a few of my last words 'fore we proceed tothe pie an' puddin' bus'nis. Any more 'hossredish' in that bottle?"holding out his glass. "Hi, hi! that's enough. You take the rest on't, "which John did, nothing loath. 

David ate his pie in silence, but before he made up his mind to attackthe pudding, which was his favorite confection, he gave an audiblechuckle, which elicited Mrs. Bixbee's notice. 

"What you gigglin' 'bout now?" she asked. 

David laughed. "I was thinkin' of somethin' I heard up to Purse's lastnight, " he said as he covered his pudding with the thick cream sauce. "Amri Shapless has ben gittin' married. "

"Wa'al, I declare!" she exclaimed. "That ole shack! Who in creationcould he git to take him?"

"Lize Annis is the lucky woman, " replied David with a grin. 

"Wa'al, if that don't beat all!" said Mrs. Bixbee, throwing up herhands, and even from Mrs. Cullom was drawn a "Well, I never!"

"Fact, " said David, "they was married yestidy forenoon. Squire Parkerdone the job. Dominie White wouldn't have nothin' to do with it!"

"Squire Parker 'd ortter be 'shamed of himself, " said Mrs. Bixbeeindignantly. 

"Don't you think that trew love had ought to be allowed to take itscourse?" asked David with an air of sentiment. 

"I think the squire 'd ortter be 'shamed of himself, " she reiterated. "S'pose them two old skinamulinks was to go an' have children?"

"Polly, you make me blush, " protested her brother. "Hain't you got norespect fer the holy institution of matrimuny?--and--at cet'ry?" headded, wiping his whole face with his napkin. 

"Much as you hev, I reckon, " she retorted. "Of all the amazin' thingsin this world, the amazinist to me is the kind of people that gitsmarried to each other in gen'ral; but this here performence beatsev'rything holler. "

"Amri give a very good reason for't, " said David with an air ofconviction, and then he broke into a laugh. 

"Ef you got anythin' to tell, tell it, " said Mrs. Bixbee impatiently. 

"Wa'al, " said David, taking the last of his pudding into his mouth, "ifyou insist on't, painful as 't is. I heard Dick Larrabee tellin' 'boutit. Amri told Dick day before yestiday that he was thinkin' of gettin'married, an' ast him to go along with him to Parson White's an' be awitniss, an' I reckon a kind of moral support. When it comes to moralsupportin', " remarked David in passing, "Dick's as good 's aprofessional, an' he'd go an' see his gran'mother hung sooner 'n missanythin', an' never let his cigar go out durin' the performence. Dicksaid he congratilated Am on his choice, an' said he reckoned they'd beputty ekally yoked together, if nothin' else. "

Here David leaned over toward Aunt Polly and said, protestingly, "Don'tgi' me but jest a teasp'nful o' that ice cream. I'm so full now 't Ican't hardly reach the table. " He took a taste of the cream and resumed:"I can't give it jest as Dick did, " he went on, "but this is about thegist on't. Him, an' Lize, an' Am went to Parson White's about half afterseven o'clock an' was showed into the parler, an' in a minute he comein, an' after sayin' 'Good evenin'' all 'round, he says, 'Well, what c'nI do fer ye?' lookin' at Am an' Lize, an' then at Dick. 

"'Wa'al, ' says Am, 'me an' Mis' Annis here has ben thinkin' fer sometime as how we'd ought to git married. '

"'_Ought_ to git married?' says Parson White, scowlin' fust at one an'then at t'other. 

"'Wa'al, ' says Am, givin' a kind o' shuffle with his feet, 'I didn'tmean _ortter_ exac'ly, but jest as _well_--kinder comp'ny, ' he says. 'Wehain't neither on us got nobody, an' we thought we might 's well. '

"'What have you got to git married on?' says the dominie after a minute. 'Anythin'?' he says. 

"'Wa'al, ' says Am, droppin' his head sideways an' borin' into his ear'ith his middle finger, 'I got the promise mebbe of a job o' work fer acouple o' days next week. ' 'H'm'm'm, ' says the dominie, lookin' at him. 'Have _you_ got anythin' to git married on?' the dominie says, turnin'to Lize. 'I've got ninety cents comin' to me fer some work I done lastweek, ' she says, wiltin' down on to the sofy an' beginnin' to snivvle. Dick says that at that the dominie turned round an' walked to the otherend of the room, an' he c'd see he was dyin' to laugh, but he come backwith a straight face. 

"'How old air you, Shapless?' he says to Am. 'I'll be fifty-eight ormebbe fifty-nine come next spring, ' says Am. 

"'How old air _you_?' the dominie says, turnin' to Lize. She wriggled aminute an' says, 'Wa'al, I reckon I'm all o' thirty, ' she says. "

"All o' thirty!" exclaimed Aunt Polly. "The woman 's most 's old 's Ibe. "

David laughed and went on with, "Wa'al, Dick said at that the dominiegive a kind of a choke, an' Dick he bust right out, an' Lize looked athim as if she c'd eat him. Dick said the dominie didn't say anythin' fera minute or two, an' then he says to Am, 'I suppose you c'n findsomebody that'll marry you, but I cert'inly won't, an' what possessesyou to commit such a piece o' folly, ' he says, 'passes my understandin'. What earthly reason have you fer wantin' to marry? On your own showin', 'he says, 'neither one on you 's got a cent o' money or any settled wayo' gettin' any. '

[Illustration]

"'That's jes' the very reason, ' says Am, 'that's jes' the _veryreason_. I hain't got nothin', an' Mis' Annis hain't got nothin', an' wefigured that we'd jes' better git married an' settle down, an' make agood home fer us both, ' an' if that ain't good reasonin', " Davidconcluded, "I don't know what is. "

"An' be they actially married?" asked Mrs. Bixbee, still incredulous ofanything so preposterous. 

"So Dick says, " was the reply. "He says Am an' Lize come away f'm thedominie's putty down in the mouth, but 'fore long Amri braced up an'allowed that if he had half a dollar he'd try the squire in the mornin', an' Dick let him have it. I says to Dick, 'You're out fifty cents onthat deal, ' an' he says, slappin' his leg, 'I don't give a dum, ' hesays; 'I wouldn't 'a' missed it fer double the money. '"

Here David folded his napkin and put it in the ring, and John finishedthe cup of clear coffee which Aunt Polly, rather under protest, hadgiven him. Coffee without cream and sugar was incomprehensible to Mrs. Bixbee. 

THE END

Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation in the originalbook have been retained.