Quincy Adams Sawyer And Mason's Corner Folks Part 52

"I guess it's a head of lettuce," said she.

At that moment the door opened and Jonas Hawkins entered, bearing a huge head of lettuce in his hand.

"Wall, Marthy," said Mr. Hawkins, "how did the man from Bosting like his breakfast? I kalkilated them fresh-laid eggs would suit him to a T."

"He ain't got up yet," replied Mrs. Hawkins.

"Must have been putty tired," continued Mr. Hawkins. "I kinder envy him.

Do yer know, Marthy, if I wuz rich I wouldn't 'git up any day till it wuz time to go to bed agin." And he laughed loudly at his own remark.

"What do yer expect me to do with that head of lettuce?" asked Mrs.

Hawkins with some asperity in her tone.

"Wall," said Jonas, "I was over to Hill's grocery and he'd ordered some from Bosting for Mis' Putnam, but she's too sick to eat 'em, so Sam gave me this one, 'cause we're putty good customers, you know, and I kalkilated that if you made up one of them nice chicken salads o' yourn it might please the new boarder and the old ones too;" and chuckling to himself he laid the lettuce on the kitchen table and walked out into the wood-shed. In a few moments he was vigorously at work chopping wood, whistling to himself as he worked.

"Mr. Hawkins is an awful good-natured man, isn't he?" asked Betsy.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Hawkins, "he's too all-fired good-natured for his own good. If I'd known him twenty-five years ago he'd have money in the bank now. His fust wife wuz slacker'n dish water. But I guess we've talked enough for one mornin', Betsy. You jest git that chicken I boiled and bone it and chop it up, and I'll make the dressin'."

When twelve o'clock sounded from the bell in the church tower, dinner was on the table at Mrs. Hawkins's boarding house. By five minutes past twelve there were fourteen seated at the table, with one vacant chair.

Professor Strout sat at the head of the table. At his left was Abner Stiles, while Robert Wood sat next to Stiles. The vacant seat was at the Professor's right hand, and all eyes were turned toward it, for all had heard of the Boston man who had arrived the night before, but who, much to their disappointment, had not appeared at breakfast.

At ten minutes past twelve the door leading into the dining-room from the front entry was opened quietly, and the young man who entered, seeing the vacant chair near the head of the table, took possession of it.

For a moment n.o.body looked up, each apparently waiting for some one else to take the initiative.

Quincy, for it was he, broke the silence, and immediately every face at the table was turned towards him.

"How do you do, Professor?" said he. "Good afternoon, Mr. Stiles and Mr.

Wood. Ah, glad to see you, Mr. Hill," he added, as he espied Samuel Hill at the farther end of the table.

The Professor's face grew crimson, then bright red, and finally a.s.sumed a bluish tinge. Abner sat transfixed. The others at the table had a charming diversity of expressions on their faces, ranging from "grave to gay, from lively to severe." No one at the table enjoyed the situation any more than Samuel Hill, who was very fond of a joke and who knew of Quincy's intention to meet his enemy at close quarters.

For several minutes no one spoke. Betsy flew from one to the other waiting upon table, but a solemn hush seemed to have fallen upon the dinner party. Again Quincy broke the silence.

"I trust, gentlemen," said he, "that you will not let my presence interfere with your usual conversation. I have no doubt Mr. Stiles can tell us a good story, and I am equally sure that Professor Strout has some entertaining bit of village gossip that he would like to circulate."

Here Samuel Hill purposely dropped his fork upon the floor and was obliged to get under the table to recover it, Betsy a.s.sisting him in the search. When they emerged from under the table their faces were red with their exertions.

As we have seen on other occasions, the Professor was very quick in rescuing himself from any dilemma into which he might be thrown. He saw an opportunity to divert attention from himself and speedily improved it.

"I think I'll have to walk over and see Miss Tilly James this afternoon," said the Professor.

At this shot at Samuel Hill and Betsy everybody laughed, including Quincy, and thus the ice was broken.

"I've heard some pretty big lies told in my life," said Robert Wood, "but I think Abel Coffin, yer know him, Professor, old Jonathan Coffin's son, the one that goes carpenterin', he lives over in Montrose, yer know, can beat anybody we've got in this town, not exceptin' you, Stiles;" and he gave the latter a nudge with his elbow that nearly knocked him out of his chair.

"Tell us the story, Robert," said the Professor, who had recovered his self-complacency; "we're dyin' to hear it."

"Well," continued Robert Wood, "Abel had been s.h.i.+nglin' a house, and I told him there wuz a place where he'd left off a s.h.i.+ngle. Abel laughed and, sez he, 'If I hadn't better eyesight than you've got I'd carry a telescope 'round with me.' 'Well,' sez I, thinkin' I'd fool him, 'let's see which one of us has got the best eyesight.' I pointed up to the ridgepole of the house, which was 'bout a hundred feet off from where we stood, and sez I to Abel, 'Can you see that fly walkin' along on the ridgepole near the chimney? I ken.' Abel put his hand up back of his ear, and sez he, 'No, I can't see him, but I can hear him walkin'

'round.'"

As Robert concluded, a loud shout of laughter went up from the table.

Quincy had no desire to be considered "stuck up," so he joined in the laugh, although he had heard the story in a different form before.

So had the Professor, and he never allowed an old story to be told in his presence without working in two lines of doggerel which he had composed, and of which he was very proud. So, turning to Robert Wood he said patronizingly, "That was very well told, Robert. The story is an old one, but you worked it up very nicely; but," continued the Professor, "as I have often remarked on similar occasions:

It makes no difference whether a story's new or old, Everything depends on the way it's told."

Turning quickly to Quincy he said, "No doubt Mr. Sawyer can favor us with a story that we've never heard before."

Quincy was a little taken aback, for the appeal was unexpected, but he quickly recovered his self-possession and said in a low but pleasant voice, "I am afraid that my story will have to depend on the way it is told rather than upon its novelty." He wondered if his hearers were acquainted with the travels of Baron Munchausen, but decided to try the experiment. "About a year ago," resumed Quincy, "I went down to Maine on some law business. I transacted it, but had to travel some ten miles to the county town to record my papers. I had a four-wheeled buggy, and a strong, heavily-built horse. It began to snow very fast after I started, but I knew the road and drove steadily on. As I approached the county town I noticed that the snow was deeper than the highest building in the town, in fact, none of the town was visible, excepting about three feet of the spire of the tallest church in the place."

Quincy stopped and glanced about the table. Every eye was fastened upon him, and all, including the Professor and Stiles particularly, were listening intently. Quincy continued his story:

"I was well supplied with buffalo robes, so after tying my horse firmly to the weather vane on the spire, I made up a bed on the snow with my buffalo robes, and slept soundly and comfortably all night. When I woke in the morning I was still enveloped in the robes, but found to my surprise that I was lying upon the ground. I looked around, but there was no sign of snow anywhere. I arose and looked about for my horse and buggy, but they were not in sight. Then I remembered that I had tied my horse to the weather vane. Casting my eyes upward I saw my horse and buggy hanging by the strap, the horse having secured a footing on the side of the spire. Happily I had a revolver with me, and with one shot I severed the broad leathern strap. Naturally the horse and buggy fell to the ground. I put my buffalo robes back into the buggy, rode to the court house, had my papers recorded, and then drove back ten miles to town, none the worse for my adventure, but the stableman charged me fifty cents for the strap that I was obliged to leave on the church spire."

A number of low whistles, intermixed with several "whews!" were heard, as Quincy finished his story.

"Wall, by thunder!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Stiles, "how do yer account for--"

"I think it must have been a sudden thaw," remarked Quincy, with a grave face.

"One thing puzzles me," said the Professor.

"What is that?" asked Quincy politely, "perhaps I can explain."

"Before you left the church," asked the Professor, "why didn't you reach up and ontie that strap?"

Another loud shout of laughter broke from the company, and Quincy, realizing that the Professor had beaten him fairly by putting a point on his own story, joined heartily in the laugh at his own expense.

"That reminds me," said Abner Stiles, "of an adventure that I had several years ago, down in Maine, when I wuz younger and spryer'n I am now."

"How old be you?" said the Professor.

"Wall," replied Abner, "the family Bible makes me out to be fifty-eight, but jedgin' from the fun I've had I'm as old as Methooserlar."

This remark gave Stiles the preliminary laugh, which he always counted upon when he told a story.

"Did yer ever meet a b'ar?" asked he, directing his remark to Quincy.

"Yes," said Quincy, "I've stood up before one many a time."

"Well, really," exclaimed Abner, "how'd yer come off?"

"Usually with considerable less money than when I went up," replied Quincy, seeing that Abner was mystified.

"What?" said Abner. "I mean a real black b'ar, one of those big, s.h.a.ggy fellers sech as you meet in the woods down in Maine."