Every Man for Himself Part 35

"Eighteen," the trader insisted.

Jehoshaphat said nothing, nor did his face express feeling. He was looking stolidly at the big key of the storehouse.

"The flour depends," Wull proceeded, after a thoughtful pause, through which he had regarded the gigantic Jehoshaphat with startled curiosity, "on what I thinks the business will stand in the way o' givin' more credit t' you."

"No, sir," said Jehoshaphat.

Wull put down his pen, slipped from the high stool, and came close to Jehoshaphat. He was mechanical and slow in these movements, as though all at once perplexed, given some new view, which disclosed many and strange possibilities. For a moment he leaned against the counter, legs crossed, staring at the floor, with his long, scrawny right hand smoothing his cheek and chin. It was quiet in the office, and warm, and well-disposed, and sunlight came in at the window.

Soon the trader stirred, as though awakening. "You was sayin' eight, wasn't you?" he asked, without looking up.

"Eight, sir."

The trader pondered this. "An' how," he inquired, at last, "was you makin' that out?"

"Tis a fair price."

Wull smoothed his cheek and chin. "Ah!" he murmured. He mused, staring at the floor, his restless fingers beating a tattoo on his teeth. He had turned woebegone and very pale. "Jehoshaphat," he asked, turning upon the man, "would you mind tellin' me just how you're 'lowin' t' get my flour against my will?"

Jehoshaphat looked away.

"I'd like t' know," said Wull, "if you wouldn't mind tellin' me."

"No," Jehoshaphat answered. "No, Mister Wull-I wouldn't mind tellin'."

"Then," Wull demanded, "how?"

"Mister Wull," Jehoshaphat explained, "I'm a bigger man than you."

It was very quiet in the office. The wind had gone down in the night, the wood in the stove was burned to glowing coals. It was very, very still in old John Wull's office at the back of the shop, and old John Wull turned away, and went absently to the desk, where he fingered the leaves of his ledger, and dipped his pen in ink, but did not write.

There was a broad window over the desk, looking out upon the harbor; through this, blankly, he watched the children at play on the ice, but did not see them. By-and-by, when he had closed the book and put the desk in order, he came back to the counter, leaned against it, crossed his legs, began to smooth his chin, while he mused, staring at the square of sunlight on the floor. Jehoshaphat could not look at him. The old man's face was so gray and drawn, so empty of pride and power, his hand so thin and unsteady, his eyes so dull, so deep in troubled shadows, that Jehoshaphat's heart ached. He wished that the world had gone on in peace, that the evil practices of the great were still hid from his knowledge, that there had been no vision, no call to revolution; he rebelled against the obligation upon him, though it had come to him as a thing that was holy. He regretted his power, had shame, indeed, because of the ease with which the mighty could be put down. He felt that he must be generous, tender, that he must not misuse his strength.

The patch of yellow light had perceptibly moved before the trader spoke.

"Jehoshaphat," he asked, "you know much about law?"

"Well, no, Mister Wull," Jehoshaphat answered, with simple candor; "not _too_ much."

"The law will put you in jail for this."

Constables and jails were like superst.i.tious terrors to Jehoshaphat. He had never set eyes on the bra.s.s b.u.t.tons and stone walls of the law.

"Oh no-_no_!" he protested. "He wouldn't! Not in _jail_!"

"The law," Wull warned, with grim delight, "will put you in jail."

"He _couldn't_!" Jehoshaphat complained. "As I takes it, the law sees fair play atween men. That's what he was _made_ for. I 'low he ought t'

put you in jail for raisin' the price o' flour t' eighteen; but not me-not for what I'm bound t' do, Mister Wull, law or no law, as G.o.d lives! 'Twouldn't be right, sir, if he put me in jail for that."

"The law will."

"But," Jehoshaphat still persisted, doggedly, "'twouldn't be _right_!'

The trader fell into a muse.

"I'm come," Jehoshaphat reminded him, "for the flour."

"You can't have it."

"Oh, dear!" Jehoshaphat sighed. "My, my! Pshaw! I 'low, then, us'll just have t' _take_ it."

Jehoshaphat went to the door of the shop. It was cold and gloomy in the shop. He opened the door. The public of Satan's Trap, in the persons of ten men of the place, fathers of families (with the exception of Timothy Yule, who had qualified upon his expectations), trooped over the greasy floor, their breath cloudy in the frosty air, and crowded into the little office, in the wake of Jehoshaphat Rudd. They had the gravity of mien, the set faces, the compa.s.sionate eyes, the merciless purpose, of a jury. The shuffling subsided. It was once more quiet in the little office. Timothy Yule's hatred got the better of his sense of propriety: he laughed, but the laugh expired suddenly, for Jehoshaphat Rudd's hand fell with unmistakable meaning upon his shoulder.

John Wull faced them.

"I 'low, Mister Wull," said Jehoshaphat, diffidently, "that we wants the storehouse key."

The trader put the key in his pocket.

"The key," Jehoshaphat objected; "we wants that there key."

"By the Almighty!" old John Wull snarled, "you'll all go t' jail for this, if they's a law in Newfoundland."

The threat was ignored.

"Don't hurt un, lads," Jehoshaphat cautioned; "for he's so wonderful tender. He've not been bred the way _we_ was. He's wonderful old an'

lean an' brittle," he added, gently; "so I 'low we'd best be careful."

John Wull's resistance was merely technical.

"Now, Mister Wull," said Jehoshaphat, when the big key was in his hand and the body of the trader had been tenderly deposited in his chair by the stove, "don't you go an' fret. We isn't the thieves that break in an' steal nor the moths that go an' corrupt. We isn't robbers, an' we isn't mean men. We're the public," he explained, impressively, "o'

Satan's Trap. We got together, Mister Wull," he continued, feeling some delight in the oratory which had been thrust upon him, "an' we 'lowed that flour was worth about eight; but we'll pay nine, for we got thinkin' that if flour goes up an' down, accordin' t' the will o' G.o.d, it ought t' go up now, if ever, the will o' G.o.d bein' a mystery, anyhow.

We don't want you t' close up the shop an' go away, after this, Mister Wull; for we got t' have you, or some one like you, t' do what you been doin', so as we can have minds free o' care for the fis.h.i.+n'. If they was anybody at Satan's Trap that could read an' write like you, an' knowed about money an' prices-if they was anybody like that at Satan's Trap, willin' t' do woman's work, which I doubts, we wouldn't care whether you went or stayed; but they isn't, an' we can't do 'ithout you. So don't you fret," Jehoshaphat concluded. "You set right there by the fire in this little office o' yours. Tom Lower'll put more billets on the fire for you, an' you'll be wonderful comfortable till we gets through. I'll see that account is kep' by Tim Yule of all we takes. You can put it on the books just when you likes. No hurry, Mister Wull-no hurry. The prices will be them that held in the fall o' the year, 'cept flour, which is gone up t' nine by the barrel. An', ah, now, Mister Wull,"

Jehoshaphat pleaded, "don't you have no hard feelin'. 'Twouldn't be right; We're the public; so _please_ don't you go an' have no hard feelin'."

The trader would say nothing.

"Now, lads," said Jehoshaphat, "us'll go." In the storehouse there were two interruptions to the transaction of business in an orderly fas.h.i.+on.

Tom Lower, who was a lazy fellow and wasteful, as Jehoshaphat knew, demanded thirty pounds of pork, and Jehoshaphat knocked him down.

Timothy Yule, the anarchist, proposed to sack the place, and him Jehoshaphat knocked down twice. There was no further difficulty.

"Now, Mister Wull," said Jehoshaphat, as he laid the key and the account on the trader's desk, "the public o' Satan's Trap is wonderful sorry; but the thing had t' be done."

The trader would not look up.

"It makes such a wonderful fuss in the world," Jehoshaphat complained, "that the crew hadn't no love for the job. But it-it-it jus' had t' be done."

Old John Wull scowled.