Читать книгу The Master; a Novel - Israel Zangwill - Страница 11

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Mrs. Strang was busy in Deacon Haileyâs kitchen. The providential death of Mrs. Hailey had given her chores to do at the homestead; for female servants—or even male—were scarce in the colony, and Ruth had been brought up by her mother to play on the harpsichord.

When Mrs. Strang got home after a three mile walk, sometimes through sleet and slush, she would walk up and down till the small hours, spinning carded wool into yarn at her great uncouth wheel, and weeping automatically at her loneliness, reft even of the occasional husband for whom she had forsaken the great naval city of her girlhood, the beautiful century-old capital. âItâs ânough to make a body throw up the position,â she would cry hysterically to the deaf rafters when the children were asleep and only the wind was awake. But the droning wheel went round just the same, steady as the wheel of time (Mrs. Strang moving to and fro like a shuttle), till the task was completed, and morning often found her ill-rested and fractious and lachrymose. Matt would have pitied her more if she had pitied herself less. In the outside world, however, she had no airs of martyrdom, bearing herself genially and independently. At the ârevivalsâ held in private houses she was an important sinful figure, though neither Harriet nor Matt had yet found grace or membership. She smiled a pleasant response to-night when Deacon Hailey came in from the tannery and said âGood-eveninâ.â It was a large, low kitchen, heated by an American stove, with a gleaming dresser and black wooden beams, from which hams hung. The deacon felt more comfortable there than in the room in which Ruth was at that moment engaged in tinkling the harpsichord, a room that contained other archaic heirlooms: old china, a tapestry screen, scriptural mottoes worked in ancestral hair, and a large colored lithograph of the Ark on Mount Ararat, for refusing to come away from which Matt had once been clouted by his mother before all the neighbors. The house was, indeed, uncommonly luxurious, sheltered by double doors and windows, and warmly wrapped in its winter cincture of tan-bark.

âAnâ howâs Billy?â asked the deacon. âSome folks âud say howâs Billyâs mother, but thet I can see fur myself—rael bonny and hanâsum, thetâs a fact. Itâs sick folk es a Christian should inquire arter, hey?â

âBillyâs jest the same,â replied Mrs. Strang, her handsome face clouding.

âNo more fits, hey?â

âNo; not for a long time, thank God. But heâll never be straight again.â

âAh, Mrs. Strang, weâre all crooked somehow. âTis the Lordâs will, you may depend. Since my poor Susan was took, my heartâs all torn and mangled; my heartstrings kinder twisted âbout her grave. Ah! never kin I forgit her. Love is love, I allus thinks. My time was spent so happy, planninâ how to make her happy—for âtis only in makinâ others happy that we git happy ourselves, hey? Now I hev no wife to devote myself to my hanâs are empty. I go âbout lookinâ everyways fur Sunday.â

âOh, but Iâm sure youâve never got a minute to spare.â

âYou may depend,â said the deacon, proudly. âIf I ainât âtarnally busy what with the tannery anâ the grist-mill anâ the farm anâ the local mail, itâs a pity. I donât believe in neglectinâ dooty because your heartâs bustinâ within.â He spat sorrowfully under the stove. âMy motto is, âTake kear oâ the minutes, and the holidays âll take kear oâ themselves.â A man hes no time to waste in this oncivilized Province, where stinkinâ Indians, that never cleared an acre in their lazy lives, hev the right to encamp on a manâs land, anâ cut down his best firs anâ ashes fur their butter-butts and baskets, and then hev the imperence to want to swop the identical same for your terbacco. Itâs thievinâ, I allus thinks; right-down breakinâ oâ the Commandments, hey?â

âWell, what kin you expecâ from Papists?â replied Mrs. Strang. âWhy, fur sixpence the holy fathers forgive âem all their sins.â

â âTainât often theyâve got sixpence, hey? When âlection-day comes round agen I wonât vote fur no candidate that donât promise to coop all them greasy Micmacs up in a reservation, same es they do to Newfoundland. Theyâre not fit to mix with hard-workinâ Christian folk. Them thar kids oâ yourn, now, I hope theyâre proper industrious. A child kinât begin too airly to larn field-work, hey?â

âAh, theyâre the best children in the world,â said Mrs. Strang. âTheyâll do anythinâ anâ eat anythinâ eâen aâmost, anâ never a crost word; thetâs a fact.â

The deacon suppressed a smile of self-gratulation. Labor was scarcer than ever that year, and in his idea of marrying Harriet Strang, which he was now cautiously about to broach, the possibility of securing the gratuitous services of the elder children counted not a little, enhancing the beauty of his prospective bride. He replied, feelingly:

âIâm everlastinâ glad to hear it, Mrs. Strang, for I know you kinât afford tâ employ outside labor. Theyâre goinâ to arx three shillinâs a day this summer, the blood-suckers.â

âThe laborer is worthy of his hire,â quoted Mrs. Strang.

âYes; but he allus wants to be highered, hey? A seasonable joke ainât bad in its right place, I allus thinks. You neednât allus be pullinâ a long face. Thet Matt of yourn, now, Iâve seen him with a face like ole Jupeâs fiddle, and walkinâ along es slow es a bark-mill turns aâmost.â

Mrs. Strang sighed.

âAh, youâre a good woman, Mrs. Strang. Thereâs no call to blush, fur itâs true. Dâye think Deacon Hailey hesnât got eyes for whatâs under his nose? The way youâre bringing up them thar kids is a credit to the Province. I only hopes theyâll be proper thankful fur it when theyâre growed up. It makes my heart bleed aâmost, I do declare. Many a time Iâve said to myself, âDeacon Hailey, âtis your dooty to do somethinâ fur them thar orphans.â Many a time Iâve thought Iâd take the elder ones off your hanâs. Thereâs plenty oâ room in the ole farm—âtwere built for children, but thereâs onây Ruth left. Anâ she isnât my own, though when you see a gal around from infancy you forgits you ainât the father, hey? What a pity poor Sophiaâs two boys were as delicate as herself.â

âSophia?â murmured Mrs. Strang, interrogatively.

âThet was my fust wife afore you came to these parts. She died young, poor critter. Never shall I forgit her. Ah, thereâs nothinâ like fust love, I allus thinks. If I hednât wanted to hev children to work fur, I should never haâ married agen. But itâs a selfish business, workinâ for oneâs own hanâ, I allus thinks, knowinâ thet when you die all youâve sweated fur âll go to strangers. Anâ now thet Iâve onây got one soul dependent on me, I feels teetotally onswoggled. What do you say? sâpose I relieve you of Matt—dooty donât end with passinâ the bag round in church, hey?—itâs on this airth that weâre called upon to sacrifice ourselves—or better still—sâpose I take Harriet off your hanâs?â

Mrs. Strang answered, hesitatingly: âIt is rael kind oâ you, deacon. But, of course, Harriet couldnât live here with you.â

âHey? Why not?â

âSheâs too ole.â

âAnâ how ole might she be?â

âGittinâ on for seventeen.â

âI guess thetâs not too ole for me,â he said, with a guffaw.

Mrs. Strang paused, startled. The idea took away her breath. The deacon smiled on. In the embarrassing silence the tinkle of Ruthâs harpsichord sounded like an orchestra.

âYou—would—raelly—like my Harriet?â Mrs. Strang said, at last.

âYou may depend—Iâve thought a good deal of her, a brisk anâ handy young critter with no boardinâ-school nonsense âbout her.â He worked his quid carefully into the other cheek, complacently enjoying Mrs. Strangâs overwhelmed condition, presumably due to his condescension. âOf course thereâs heaps of hanâsum gals every ways, but booty is only skin-deep, I allus thinks. Sheâs very young, too, but thetâs rather in her favor. You can eddicate âem if you take âem young. Train up a child, hey?â

âBut Iâm afeared Harriet wouldnât give up Abner Preep,â said Mrs. Strang, slowly. âSheâs the most obstinate gal, thetâs a fact.â

âHey? She walks out with Abner Preep?â

âNo—not thet! Iâve sot my face agin thet. But I know she wouldnât give him up, thetâs sartin.â

Ruthâs harpsichord again possessed the silence, trilling forth âDoxologyâ with an unwarranted presto movement. Mrs. Strang went on: âThe time oâ your last muddinâ frolic she danced with him all night eâen aâmost and druv off home in his sleigh, anâ there ainât a quiltinâ party or a candy-pullinâ or an infare but she contrives to meet him.â

âScendalous!â exclaimed the deacon.

âI donât see nothinâ scendalous!â replied Mrs. Strang, indignantly. âThe young man wants to marry her genuine. âPears to me your darter is more scendalous aâmost, playinâ hymns as if they were hornpipes. I didnât arx my folks if I might meet my poor Davie; we went to dances and shows together, and me a Baptist, God forgive me! And Harrietâs jest like that—the hussy—she takes arter her mother.â

âBut if you were to talk to her!â urged the deacon.

Mrs. Strang shook her head.

âSheâd stab herself sooner.â

âStab herself soonerân give up Abner Preep!â

âSoonerân marry any one else.â

The deacon paused to cut himself a wedge of tobacco imperturbably. There was no trace of his disappointment visible; with characteristic promptitude he was ready for the next best thing.

âWell, who wants her to marry anybody else?â he asked, raising his eyebrows. âYou donât, do you?â

âN-n-o,â gasped Mrs. Strang, purpling.

âThetâs right. Give her her head a bit. It donât do to tie a grown-up gal to her mammyâs apron-strings. You may take a horse to the water, but you kinât make her drink, hey? No, no, donât you worry Harriet with forcinâ husbands on her.â

âI—I—kinder—thought—â gasped Mrs. Strang, looking handsomer than ever in the rosy glow of confusion.

âYou kinder thought—â echoed Old Hey, spitting accurately under the stove.

âThet you wanted Harriet—â

âThetâs so. I guessed she could live here more comfortable than to home. I donât ask no reward; âthe widder and the orphan,â as Scripter says—hey?â

âYou didnât mean marriage?â

âHey?â shouted the deacon. âMarriage? Me? Well, I swow! Me, whose Susan hes only been dead five months! A proper thing to suspecâ me of! Why, all the neighbors âud be sayinâ, âSusan is hardly cold in her grave afore heâs thinkinâ of another.â â

âI beg your pardin,â said the abashed woman.

âAnâ well you may, I do declare! Five months arter the funeral, indeed! Why, ten months at least must elapse! But you teetotally mistook my meaninâ, Mrs. Strang; itâs a woman Iâd be wantinâ—a woman with a heart anâ a soul, not an unbroken filly. All I was a-thinkinâ of was, Could thet thar Abner Preep clothe and feed your darter? But I ainât the man to bear malice; and till you kin feel you kin trust her to him or some other man, my house is open to her. I donât draw back my offer, and when I made it I was quite aware you would hev to be on the spot, too, to look arter her—hey?â

âMe?â

âWell, youâre not too ole, anyways.â And the deacon smiled again. âAâready youâre here all day eâen aâmost.â Here he half knelt down to attend to the stove, which was smoking very slightly. âIt wouldnât be much of a change to sleep here, hey?â

âOh, but youâre forgittinâ the other children, deacon.â

âDeacon Hailey ainât the man to forgit anythinâ, I guess,â he said, over his shoulder. âAfore he talks he thinks. He puts everythinâ in the tan-pit anâ lets it soak, hey? Is it likely Iâd take you over here anâ leave the little uns motherless? I never did like this kind of stove.â He fidgeted impatiently with the mechanism at the back, making the iron rattle.

âI—I—donât—understand,â faltered Mrs. Strang, her heart beginning to beat painfully.

âHow you do go on ter-day, Mrs. Strang! When I ainât talkinâ oâ marriage you jump at it, and when I am you hang back like a mare afore a six-foot dyke. Ah! thetâs better,â and he adjusted the damper noisily, with a great sigh of satisfaction.

âYou want to marry me?â gasped Mrs. Strang. The dark, handsome features flushed yet deeper; her bosom heaved.

âYouâve struck it! I do want ter, thetâs plain!â He rose to his feet, and threw his head back and his chest forward. âYouâll allus find me straightforward, Mrs. Strang. I donât beat about the bush, hey? But I shouldnât hev spoke so prematoor if you hednât druv me to it by your mistake âbout Harriet. Es if I could marry a giddy young gal with her head full oâ worldly thoughts! Surely you must hev seen how happy Iâve been to hev you here, arninâ money to pay off your mortgage. Not that Iâd a-called it in anyways! Whatâs thet thar little sum to me? But I was thinkinâ oâ your feelinâs; how onhappy you would be to owe me the money. And then thinkinâ how to do somethinâ for your children, I saw it couldnât be done without takinâ you into account. A mother clings to her children. Nater is nater, I allus thinks. And the more I took you into account, the more you figured up. Thereâs a great mother, I thinks; thereâs a God-fearinâ woman. Anâ a God-fearinâ woman is a crown to her husbanâ, hey? If ever I do bring myself to marry agen, thetâs the woman for my money, I vow! When I say money, itâs onây speakinâ in parables like, âcause Iâm not thet sort oâ man. There air men as âud come to you anâ say, âSee here, Mrs. Strang, Iâve got fifty acres of fust-class interval-land, anâ a thousand acres of upland and forest-land, anâ thirty head oâ cattle, anâ a hundred sheep aâmost, anâ a tannery thet, with the shoemakerâs shop attached, brings me in two hundred pound a year, anâ a grist-mill, anâ I carry the local mail, anâ Iâve shares and mortgages thet would make you open your eyes, I tell you, anâ Iâm free from encumbrances eâen aâmost, whereas youâve got half a dozen.â But what does Deacon Hailey say? He says, jest put all thet outer your mind, Mrs. Strang, anâ think onây oâ the man—think oâ the man, with no one to devote himself to.â

He took her hand, and she did not withdraw it. Emotion made her breathing difficult. In the new light in which he appeared to her she saw that he was still a proper man—straight and tall and sturdy and bright of eye, despite his grizzled beard and hair.

âAnâ if you kinât give him devotion in return, jest you say so plump; take a lesson from his straightforwardness, hey? Donât you think oâ your mortgage, or his money-bags, âcause money ainât happiness, hey? Anâ donât you go sacrificinâ yourself for your children, thinkinâ oâ poor little Billyâs future, âcause I donât hold with folks sacrificinâ themselves wholesale; self-preservation is the fust law of nater, hey? anâ it wouldnât be fair to me. All ye hev to arx yourself is jest this: Kin you make Deacon Hailey happy in his declininâ years?â He drew himself up to his full height without letting go her hand, and his eyes looked into hers. âYes, I say declininâ years—thereâs no deception, the âtaters air all up to sample. How ole might you think me?â

âFifty,â she said, politely.

âNearer sixty!â he replied, triumphantly. âBut I hev my cold bath every morninâ—Iâm none oâ your shaky boards that fly into etarnal bits at the fust clout, hey?â

âBut you hev been married twice,â she faltered.

âSo will you be—when you marry me, hey?â And the deacon lifted her chin playfully. âWeâre neither on us rough timber—weâve both hed our wainy edges knocked off, hey? My father hed three wives—and heâs still hale and hearty—a widower oâ ninety. Like father like son, hey? Heâs a deacon, too, down to Digby.â

As Deacon Hailey spoke of his father he grew middle-aged to Mrs. Strangâs vision. But she found nothing to reply, and her thoughts drifted off inconsequently on the rivulet of sacred music.

âBut Ruth wonât like it,â she murmured at last.

âHey? Whatâs Ruth got to say in the matter? I guess Ruth knows her fifth commandment, anâ so do I. My father is the onây person whose blessinâ I shall arx on my âspousals. I allus make a pint oâ thet, you may depend.â

The pathetic picture of Deacon Hailey beseeching his fatherâs blessing knocked off ten years more from his age, and it was a young and ardent wooer whose grasp tightened momently on Mrs. Strangâs hand.

âWe might go to see him together,â he said. âItâs an everlastinâ purty place, Digby.â

âIâd rayther see Halifax,â said Mrs. Strang, weakly. In the whirl of her thoughts Ruthâs tinkling tune seemed the only steady thing in the universe. Oh, if Ruth would only play something bearing on the situation, so that Heaven might guide her in this sudden and fateful crisis!

âHalifax, too, some day,â said the deacon, encouragingly, laying his disengaged hand caressingly on her hair. âWeâll go to the circus together.â

She withdrew herself spasmodically from his touch.

âDonât ask me!â she cried; âyouâre Presbyterian!â

âWell, and what was your last husbanâ?â

âDonât ask me. Harriet and Matt air ongodly ânough as it is; theyâve neither on âem found salvation.â

âWell, I wonât interfere with your doctrines, you bet. Freedom oâ conscience, I allus thinks. We all sarve the same Maker, hey? I guess youâre purty regâlar at our church, though.â

âThetâs Godâs punishment on me for runninâ away from Halifax, where I hed a church of my own to go to, but he never cared nuthinâ âbout the âsential rite, my poor Davie. I ought to haâ been expelled from membership there and then, thetâs a fact, but the elders were merciful. Sometimes I think âtis the old French nater that makes me backslide; my grandfather came from Paris in 1783, at the end oâ the Amurâcan war, and settled to St. Margaretâs Bay; but then he married into a god-fearinâ German family that emigrated there the same time aâmost, and that ought to haâ made things straight agen.â

Mrs. Strang talked on, glad to find herself floating away from the issue. But the deacon caught her by the hand again and hauled her back.

âThere wonât be no backslidinâ in Deacon Haileyâs household, you may depend,â he said. âWhen a woman hes a godly stay-to-home husband, Satan takes to his heels. Itâs widders and grass-widders es he flirts with, hey?â

Mrs. Strang colored up again, and prayed silently for help from the harpsichord.

âI kinât give you an answer yet,â she said, feebly.

Old Hey slowly squirted a stream of tobacco-juice into the air as imperturbably as a stone fountain figure.

âI donât want your answer yet. Didnât I tell you I couldnât dream of marryinâ agen for ages? It donât matter your beinâ in a hurry âcause your pardner left you three years back, but I hev the morals oâ the township to consider; itâs our dooty in life to set a good example to the weaker brethren, I allus thinks. Eight months at least must elapse! I onây spoke out now âcause oâ your onfortunate mistake âbout Harriet, and all I want is to be sure thet when I do come to ask you in proper form and in doo course, you wonât say âno.â â

Mrs. Strang remained silent. And the harpsichord was silent too. Even that had deserted her; its sound might have been tortured into some applicability, but its silence could be construed into nothing, unless it was taken to give consent. And then all at once Ruth struck a new chord. Mrs. Strang strained her ears to catch the first bar. The deacon could not understand the sudden gleam that lit up her face when the instrument broke into the favorite Nova Scotian song, âThe Vacant Chair!â At last Heaven had sent her a sign; there was a vacant chair, and it was her mission to fill it.

âWell, is thet a bargen?â asked the deacon, losing patience.

âIf youâre sure you want me,â breathed Mrs. Strang.

In a flash the deaconâs arms were round her and his lips on hers. She extricated herself almost as quickly by main force.

â âTwarnât to be yet,â she cried, indignantly.

âOf course not, Mrs. Strang,â retorted the deacon, severely. âOnây you asked if I was sure, and I allowed Iâd show you Deacon Hailey was genuine. Itâs sorter sealinâ the bargen, hey? I couldnât let you depart in onsartinty.â

âWell, behave yourself in future,â she said, only half mollified, as she readjusted her hair, âor Iâll throw up the position. I guess Iâll be off now,â and she took bonnet and mantle from a peg.

âNot in anger, Mrs. Strang, I hope. âLet all bitterness be put away from you,â hey? Thet thar hanâsum face oâ yourn warnât meant for thunder-clouds.â

He hastened to help her on with her things, and in the process effected a reconciliation by speaking of new ones—âstore clothesâ—that would set off her beauty better. Mrs. Strang walked airily through the slushy forest road as on a primrose path. She was excited and radiant—her troubles were rolled away, and her own and her childrenâs future assured, and Heaven itself had nodded assent. Her lonely heart was to know a loverâs tenderness again; it was swelling now with gratitude that might well blossom into affection. How gay her home should be with festive companies, to be balanced by mammoth revivalist meetings! She would be the centre of hospitality and piety for the country-side.

But as she neared the house—which seemed to have run half-way to meet her—the primroses changed back to slush, and her face to its habitual gloom.

Matt and Harriet were alone in the kitchen. The girl was crocheting, the boy daubing flowers on a board, which he slid under the table as he heard his mother stamping off the wet snow in the passage. Mrs. Strang detected the board, but she contented herself by ordering him to go to bed. Then she warmed her frozen hands at the stove and relapsed into silence. Twenty times she opened her lips to address Harriet, but the words held back. She grew angry with her daughter at last.

âYouâre plaguy onsociable to-night, Harriet,â she said, sharply.

âMe, mother?â

âYes, you. You might tell a body the news.â

âThereâs no news to Cobequid. Ole Jupeâs come back from fiddlinâ at a colored ball way down Hants County. He says two darkies hed a fight over the belle.â

Harriet ceased, and her needles clicked on irritatingly. Mrs. Strang burst forth:

âYou might ask a body the news.â

âWhat news can there be down to Ole Heyâs?â Harriet snapped.

âDeacon Hailey,â began Mrs. Strang, curiously stung by the familiar nickname, and pricked by resentment into courage; then her voice failed, and she concluded, almost in a murmur, âis a-thinkinâ of marryinâ agen.â

âThe ole wretch!â ejaculated Harriet, calmly continuing her crocheting.

âHeâs not so ole!â expostulated Mrs. Strang, meekly.

âHeâs sixty! Why, you might as well think oâ marryinâ! The idea!â

âOh, but Iâm onây thirty-five, Harriet!â

âWell, itâs jest es ole. Love-makinâ is onây for the young.â

âThetâs jest where youâre wrong, Harriet. Youth is enjoyment enough of itself. It is the ole folks that hev nothinâ else to look fur thet want to be loved. Itâs the onây thing thet keeps âem from throwinâ up the position, anâ they marry sensibly. Young folks oughter wait till theyâve got sense.â

âThe longer they wait the less sense theyâve got! If two people love each other they ought to marry at once, thetâs a fact.â

âYes; if theyâre two ole sensible people.â

âIâm tarâd oâ this talk oâ waitinâ,â said Harriet, petulantly. âHow ole were you when you ran away with father?â

âYou ondecent minx!â ejaculated Mrs. Strang.

âYou werenât no older nor me,â persisted Harriet, unabashed.

âYes, but I lived in a great city. I saw young men of all shapes and sizes. I picked from the tree—I didnât take the fust thet fell at my feet; anâ how you can look at an onsightly critter like Abner Preep! Iâd rayther see you matched with Roger Besant, for though his left shoulder is half an inch higher than the right aâmost, from carrying heavy timbers in the ship-yard, he donât bend his legs like a couple oâ broken candles.â

âDonât talk to me oâ Roger Besant—heâs a toad. Itâs Abner I love. I donât kear âbout his legs; his heartâs in the right place!â

âYou mean heâs give it to you!â

âI reckon so!â

âAnâ you will fly in my face?â

âI must,â said Harriet, sullenly, âif you donât take your face out oâ the way.â

âYou imperent slummix! Anâ you will leave your mother alone?â

âEs soon es Abner kin build a house.â

âThen if you marry Abner Preep,â said Mrs. Strang, rising in all the majesty of righteous menace, âIâll marry Deacon Hailey.â

âWhat!â Harriet also rose, white and scared.

âYou may depend! Iâm desprit! You kin try me too far. You know the wust, now. I will take my face out oâ the way, you onnatural darter! I will take it to one thet âpreciates it.â

There was a painful silence. Mrs. Strang eyed her daughter nervously. Harriet seemed dazed.

âYouâd marry Ole Hey?â she breathed at last.

âYouâd marry young Preep!â retorted the mother

âIâm a young gal!â

âAnâ Iâm an ole woman! Two ole folks is es good a match es two young uns.â

âAh, but you donât allow Abner and me is a good match!â said Harriet, eagerly.

âIf you allow the deacon and me is.â

Their eyes met.

âYou see, thereâs the young uns to think on,â said Mrs. Strang. âIf you were to go away, how could I get along with the mortgage?â

âThetâs true,â said Harriet, relenting a little.

âAnâ if we were all to go to the farm, thereâd be the house for you and Abner.â

Harriet flushed rosily.

âAnâ mebbe the deacon wouldnât be hard with the mortgage!â

âMebbe,â murmured Harriet. Her heart went pit-a-pat. But suddenly her face clouded.

âBut what will Matt say?â she half whispered, as if afraid he might be within hearing. âI guess heâll be riled some.â

âOh, heâll be all right if you kinder break the news to him anâ explain the thing proper. I reckon he wonât take to the deacon at first.â

âThe deacon! Itâs Abner Iâm thinkinâ on!â

âAbner! What does it matter what he thinks of Abner? âTainât es if Matt was older nor you. Heâs got nothinâ to say in the matter, I do allow.â

âBut he calls him Bully Preep, and says he used to wallop him at McTavitâs.â

âAnd didnât he desarve it?â asked Mrs. Strang, indignantly.

âHe says he wonât hev him foolinâ arounâ. He calls him a mean skunk.â

âAnd whoâs Matt, I should like to know, to pass his opinions on his elders anâ betters? You jest take no notice of his âtarnation imperence and heâll dry up. Itâs hevinâ a new father heâll be peaked about. Thetâs why youâd better do the talkinâ to Matt!â

âThen youâll hev to tell him âbout Abner,â bargained Harriet.

But neither had the courage.