Darrel of the Blessed Isles Part 12

"Wal, then, if ye don't ever git t' be President, ye won't have t'

starve. I saw an author one day."

"You did?"

"He was an awful-lookin' cuss," said the other, with a nod of affirmation.

The strange boy took another bite of bread and b.u.t.ter.

"Wrote dime novels an' drank whisky an' wore a bearskin vest," he added presently.

"Do you know the Declaration of Independence?"

"No."

"I do," said the strange boy, and gave it word for word.

They chatted and tried tricks and spent a happy hour there by the roadside. It was an hour of pure democracy--neither knew even the name of the other so far.

They got to Cleveland late in the afternoon.

"Now keep yer hand on yer wallet," said the strange boy, as they were coming into the city. "I've got three dollars an'

seventy-five cents in mine, an' I don't propose t' have it took away from me."

Trove went to a tavern, the other to stay with friends. Near noon next day both boys met on the wharf, where Trove was to board a steamboat.

"Got a job?" Trove inquired.

"No," said the other, with a look of dejection. "I tried, an' they cursed an' d.a.m.ned me awful. I got away as quick as I could. Dunno but I'll have t' go back an' try t' be a statesman er something o'

that kind. Guess it's easier than goin' t' sea. Give me yer name an' address, an' maybe I'll write ye a letter."

Trove complied.

"Please give me yours," said he.

"It's James Abram Garfield, Orange, O.," said the other.

Then they spoke a long good-by.

XI

The Old Rag Doll

The second week of September Trove went down the hills again to school, with food and furniture beside him in the great wagon. He had not been happy since he got home. Word of that evening with the pretty "Vaughn girl" had come to the ears of Allen.

"You're too young for that, boy," said he, the day Trove came.

"You must promise me one thing--that you'll keep away from her until you are eighteen."

In every conviction Allen was like the hills about him--there were small changes on the surface, but underneath they were ever the same rock-boned, firm, unmoving hills.

"But I'm in love with her," said the boy, with dignity. "It is more than I can bear. I tell you, sir, that I regard the young lady with--with deep affection." He had often a dignity of phrase and manner beyond his years.

"Then it will last," said Allen. "You're only a boy, and for a while I know what is best for you."

Trove had to promise, and, as that keen edge of his feeling wore away, doubted no more the wisdom of his father. He wrote Polly a letter, quaint with boyish chivalry and frankness--one of a package that has lain these many years in old ribbons and the scent of lavender.

He went to the Sign of the Dial as soon as he got to Hillsborough that day. Darrel was at home, and a happy time it was, wherein each gave account of the summer. A stranger sat working at the small bench. Darrel gave him no heed, chatting as if they were quite alone.

"And what is the news in Hillsborough?" said Trove, his part of the story finished.

"Have ye not heard?" said Darrel, in a whisper. "Parson Hammond hath swapped horses."

Trove began to laugh.

"Nay, that is not all," said the tinker, his pipe in hand. "Deacon Swackhammer hath smitten the head o' Brooke. Oh, sor, 'twas a comedy. Brooke gave him an ill-sounding word. Swackhammer removed his coat an' flung it down. 'Deacon, lie there,' said he.

Then each began, as it were, to bruise the head o' the serpent.

Brooke--poor man!--he got the worst of it. An' sad to tell! his wife died the very next day."

"Of what?" Trove inquired,

"Marry, I do not know; it may have been joy," said the tinker, lighting his pipe. "Ah, sor, Brooke is tough. He smites the helping hand an' sickens the heart o' kindness. I offered him help an' sympathy, an' he made it all bitter with suspicion o' me. I turned away, an' said I to meself, 'Darrel, thy head is soft--a babe could brain thee with a lady's fan.'"

Darrel puffed his pipe in silence a little time.

"Every one hates Brooke," said Trove.

"Once," said Darrel, presently, "a young painter met a small animal with a striped back, in the woods. They exchanged compliments an'

suddenly the painter ran, shaking his head. As he came near his own people, they all began to flee before him. He followed them for days, an' every animal in the woods ran as he came near. By an' by he stopped to rest. Then he looked down at himself an'

spat, sneeringly. When, after weeks o' travel, he was at length admitted to the company of his kind, they sat in judgment on him.

"'Tell us,' said one, 'what evil hath befallen thee?'

"'Alas!' said the poor cat, 'I met a little creature with a striped back.'

"'A little creature! an' thee so put about?' said another, with great contempt.

"'Ay; but he hath a mighty talent,' said the sad painter. 'Let him but stand before thee, an' he hath spoiled the earth, an' its people, an' thou would'st even flee from thyself. But in fleeing thou shalt think thyself on the way to h.e.l.l.'"

For a moment Darrel shook with silent laughter. Then he rose and put his pipe on the shelf.

"Well, I'd another chance to try the good law on him," said Darrel, presently. "In July he fell sick o' fever, an' I delayed me trip to nurse him. At length, when he was nearly well, an' I had come to his home one evening, the widow Glover met me at his door.

"'If ye expect money fer comin' here, ye better go on 'bout yer business,' Brooke shouted from the bedroom. 'I don't need ye any more, an' I'll send ye a bushel o' potatoes by 'n by. Good day.'

"Not a word o' thanks!" the tinker exclaimed. "Wrath o' G.o.d! I fear there is but one thing would soften him."

"And what is that?"