Читать книгу Silas Bradford's Boy - Joseph C Lincoln - Страница 3

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Denboro was satisfied with itself. "Not a city—no! Not a crowded metropolis, teeming with riches and poverty, its gilded palaces rubbing elbows with its sin-soaked slums—not that indeed. But a community of homes, the homes of God-fearing men and noble women, a town with churches and schools, of prosperous shops and a well- patronized circulating library, whose sons have sailed the seven seas, whose daughters have reared their children to be true Americans—in short, my friends, perhaps as fine an example of what a town should be as may be found between the surging billows of the Atlantic upon the one hand and the blue bosom of the Pacific upon the other." (See the address of the Hon. Alonzo Pearson, delivered at the celebration of the two hundredth anniversary of the incorporation of the township of Denboro, and on file in the office of Abel Snow, town clerk.)

No, Denboro would not have feared inspection, it would have welcomed it; the more perfect the diamond the purer its glitter beneath the magnifying glass. If it had been aware that Banks Bradford, as he strolled down Main Street toward home and supper that afternoon, was looking it over with amused condescension it would not have cared at all. Several of its citizens looked young Mr. Bradford over as he passed, and their comments were singularly free from awe or uneasiness.

"Who did you say?" queried Ebenezer Tadgett, peering through the panes of the window of his secondhand shop. "Who did you say 'twas, Joe?"

Jotham Gott, the cards of the euchre hand which had just been dealt him clutched in his huge fist, answered casually. "Oh, it's that boy of Margaret Bradford's," he said. "Cap'n Silas Bradford's son. He belongs here in town, but he's been away so much, up to college and studyin' law and the like of that, that I guess you ain't seen much of him since you come to Denboro to live, Ebenezer. His first name's Silas, same as his father's was, but they always call him by his middle one—Banks. Lord knows why! If my old man was as smart as Cap'n Silas was in his day and time I'd be proud to use his name even if 'twas Judas; yes"—with a chuckle—"even if 'twas Eliab— and that's stretchin' things up to the limit of eyesight, you'll have to give in."

The third member of the euchre party was a tall, raw-boned, stoop- shouldered individual with a long face, the most prominent feature of which was nose. His surname was Gibbons and his Christian name Eliab. He sniffed through the prominent feature just mentioned and turned on his heel.

"Humph!" he growled. "If my eyesight was so poor I played the king thinkin' 'twas the right bower I'd keep still, seems to me. Come on, boys; come on! You owe me seven cents so fur, Jotham, and I'm cal'latin' to make it ten in a couple more hands, which is all we've got time for."

The game of "cutthroat" euchre was resumed in the back shop, and Banks Bradford was for the time forgotten. Meanwhile Mr. Bradford himself had turned the corner by the post office and was walking, more rapidly now, along the Mill Road on his way to the house in which he was born and where he knew his mother and his supper were awaiting him.

The Bradford home was situated on the slope of Mill Hill, upon the crest of which still stood the old windmill where, years before, the dwellers in Denboro brought their corn and rye to be ground. Capt. Silas Bradford had bought the land when he was a very young man, unmarried and in command of his first ship. He had bought it because of the view, which was extensive. From the Bradford porch one looked out over the little harbor, with its wharf and fish houses, the dories and catboats, across the bay to the lighthouse and lifesaving station at Loon Point, and beyond to the waters of the Sound. The house was not large, nor architecturally beautiful, judged by the standard of to-day. When Captain Silas built it there was a strong fancy for mansard roofs, and jig-sawed ornamental work about the piazza pillars and edging the eaves. It was painted white, its window blinds were green, and surrounding the property was a picket fence, also spotlessly white.

It was, in spite of the jig-sawing, an attractive house with a homelike, comfortable look. Not by any means, said Trumet, the sort of house Silas Bradford would have built in his later days when he was a member of the Boston shipping firm of Trent, Truman & Bradford. And distinctly not to be compared with the mansion on the Old Ostable Road which his partner, Elijah Truman, also a Denboro man, did build when, an old man, having made his pile, he married, retired from business and came back to his native town, bringing his bride, many years younger than he, with him. Elijah had been dead for some time; but his widow still occupied the big house—that is, when she could forego European travel and California winters long enough to settle down anywhere.

Elijah Truman was a smart man, so Denboro cheerfully admitted. And old Benjamin Trent, the senior partner of the firm, had been smart, too, although he was foolish enough to choose Ostable rather than Denboro as his abiding place. But the community was practically unanimous in agreeing that neither Trent nor Truman was ever, for cleverness and acumen and general outstanding ability, a "patch" upon Silas Bradford. "If Captain Silas had lived he would have made a name for himself, not only in Ostable County but in Boston and all over. Yes, he would!" But he did not live. In 1883, when only thirty-five, he died in San Francisco, as the result of an accident—careless handling of a gun or pistol or something. And Margaret Bradford—she that was Margaret Banks, one of the Bayport Bankses—was left a widow, with a boy five years old. Margaret was a good enough woman, there was nothing to be said against her, but— the older heads in Denboro had wagged over this many times—she was not good enough to be the wife of a man like Captain Silas. In fact—more head-wagging here—his marriage was—you might as well say it as think it—the one mistake of the captain's life. "Only twenty-five when he married," said Denboro. "Too young, altogether too young. If he'd waited—"'

Silas Bradford had been dead twenty years and now his son was twenty-five, the exact age of his father at the time when the latter committed the "one mistake." And during those twenty years, seafaring and ship-owning had gone out of fashion as means of livelihood for ambitious men. Silas Banks Bradford had never trodden a deck except as passenger. Instead, he had attended college, then law school; and now, after a summer's visit with a college friend in the West, he was at home again, a freshly fledged member of the Massachusetts bar. He had no intention of remaining at home, however; far from it.

He opened the side door of the house—side doors were in New England, in those days, still the regulation family entrance—and entered the sitting room. Upon the wall above the mantel hung the portrait of his father, a crayon enlargement of the latter's last photograph, taken when he was thirty-three. The crayon enlargement was a gift from Abijah Bradford, Silas's younger brother. Abijah had two enlargements made. One he gave to Margaret, the widow; the other he kept. It hung in his bachelor apartment in the Malabar Hotel on Main Street.

Banks tossed his hat upon the sofa and went on into the adjoining room, the dining room. The supper table was laid and ready, and in the Salem rocker by the plant-filled window sat his mother reading the morning Advertiser. She dropped the paper and rose as he entered.

In her youth, when the handsome and dashing Silas Bradford came a-courting and with his customary forceful domination pushed all rivals from his path, Margaret Banks had been a pretty girl. Now her hair was white and her figure matronly, but as her face lighted with a smile of welcome for her son she was good-looking still.

"Well, Banks," she said, "I had begun to wonder what had happened to you. Where have you been? Sit right down. Supper has been ready a long time."

She brought the teapot and the plate of cream-o'-tartar biscuits from the kitchen and they seated themselves at the table.

"Where have you been?" she asked again, as she poured the tea.

"Nowhere in particular, Mother. Just walking around, looking things over, that's all. Sorry I'm late; I didn't mean to be."

"Oh, that's all right. You weren't late—very. Then"—she hesitated an instant—"then you haven't been in to see your uncle? I thought perhaps you had and that was what kept you so long."

"No, I haven't called on Uncle Bije yet. I will to-morrow. I've been just tramping about, down by the wharf and up and down Main Street. Sort of sizing up Denboro, you know. I've been away from it so long that I thought I would see how it looked."

"Well," said his mother, handing him a brimming cup, "how did it look? Natural, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes, natural enough. Precious little change, so far as it is concerned. The change is in me, I guess."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, I don't know—yes, I do too. Denboro is a nice old town, but Lord, it is sleepy and dead and one-horse! I like it—that is, I like to come back to it once in a while and—well, shake hands with people and places I used to know when I was a kid. I suppose every man feels that way about the town he was born in, if he has any sentiment at all." He spoke as if he were at least an octogenarian.

His mother smiled. "Yes," she agreed.

"Yes. But honestly, Mother, it is funny the way one's ideas change. I remember I used to think Mill Hill here was only a few feet lower than Mont Blanc and the town hall about as huge as the Capitol at Washington. They've shrunk. The whole place has shrunk; I give you my word it has."

Margaret Bradford's smile was broader. There was a twinkle in her eye. "Banks," she observed, "you speak as if you had been away from Denboro for twenty years instead of three months."

"Do I? Well, I feel as if I had. And, of course, I really have been away for a long time. Four years at college and then the law school. Home for vacations, but I was too busy having a good time then to notice much. Now, when I'm through getting ready to earn my living and am thinking of making a start at the regular job, I— well, I've come to realize things as they are. I've broadened, I guess. That's the answer."

"I see. Then you don't like Denboro?"

"Like it? Of course I like it. I just said I did."

"I mean you wouldn't like it as a place to stay in—to live and work in?"

The young man's laugh was answer sufficient. "I should say not!" he declared, with derisive emphasis. "How does anybody live in Denboro?"

"They manage somehow. Your Uncle Abijah has lived here all his life."

"Yes, and so has Cousin Nellie, for that matter. Well, you won't have to live here much longer, Mother. I told you that the other day. Just as soon as Bill Davidson gets back to Boston, after he finishes his trip around the world and arranges about my having a chance with his father's firm. It won't be much of a job, so far as pay is concerned—not at first, but I'll attend to that end of it in time. I'll get ahead, if hard work will do it."

"I am sure of that, Banks."

"Yes; why not? Other fellows get on, with less start than I'll have. Father didn't have a cent when he began. He went to sea as cabin boy when he was fourteen or so, and look what he was when he died. What?"

"I didn't speak. At least, I didn't know that I did."

"Oh, I thought you did. Well, what I'm trying to say is that you and I will shut this house up. Oh, not sell it—I wouldn't do that any more than you would. We could rent it, though, if we really need the extra money. You and I will go up to Boston. You will keep house for us both in some nice apartment, say. I'll go in with Davidson's father, and the rest of it is up to me. Sounds good enough, doesn't it?"

"Yes, yes, Banks, it sounds very good indeed."

"Well, then," a trifle impatiently, "why, every time I mention it, do you look so queer? Why, Mother, what in the world—you're not crying, are you?"

"No. No, Banks, I hope I'm not crying. Why should I cry?"

"Lord knows, but I swear I believe you are! Mother, don't you want to go to Boston to live—with me? You would be happy there, I know you would."

"I should be happy anywhere with you, dear."

"Then, what—"

"Hush! Don't get so excited. Banks, I—I wish you had gone in to see Uncle Abijah this afternoon. He asked you to come. I am afraid he may have waited, expecting you."

"Really? I'm sorry if he did, but I didn't think it made any difference whether I went to-day or to-morrow. I will go the first thing in the morning. But look here, you act as if my seeing him was important. It isn't, is it? What does he want to see me about?"

Mrs. Bradford hesitated. Her look, as she regarded her son across the supper table, was anxious and troubled. "I think he wants to talk with you about—about your plans for the future. The sort of thing you have just been talking about to me."

Banks was surprised. "He does!" he exclaimed. "Why?"

"He is interested. He is fond of you, you know."

"I'm fond of him, so far as that goes. Uncle Bije is a good old sport. Pretty stubborn and always ordering people about as if he were their skipper and they were foremast hands, but all right, just the same. He's forever bragging about Denboro and the Bradfords and all that, but I don't mind. Probably I should talk the same way if I had never been anywhere else and was as ancient as he is."

"He is only three or four years more ancient than I am. And as for his never having been anywhere, well, he has made two round-the- world voyages that I know of. Before he gave up the sea I don't suppose he had spent more than three months at a time in Denboro since he was a boy."

"Now, Mother, you know what I mean. And what is all this, anyway? Is this—er—conference that I am to have with Uncle Abijah so terribly serious? You act as if it was."

"Why yes, dear, it is."

"The deuce you say! And it is about me and my plans for the future?"

"Yes. That, and money matters."

"Money matters! Our money matters—yours and mine? Mother, what's gone wrong? What has happened?"

"Nothing has happened. But you see—"

"Wait! Have we—have you had losses or—or things like that?"

She shook her head. "No, Banks," she said, "I haven't had any losses. You see, I never had a great deal to lose."

He leaned back in the chair, but before he could speak a step sounded upon the walk outside. His mother heard it and turned.

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed. "Some one is coming. I do hope it isn't Hettie."

Banks rose to his feet. "Bother!" he growled. "Mother, can't you tell whoever it is that we're busy?"

She did not have time to answer, for the side door had opened. Capt. Abijah Bradford stood on the threshold of the dining room.

"Hello, Banks!" he hailed. "Evenin', Margaret. Sorry to break in on your supper, thought you'd be through by this time."

Captain Abijah was tall, broad and bulky; scarcely a gray hair; blue eyes, with the sailor's pucker about their corners. He rolled when he walked, like a ship in a seaway. He was by no means handsome, as his older brother had been, but he had the Bradford nose and chin—Banks had these—and the Bradford air of assurance and command. He was a bachelor, a member of the board of selectmen, a director in the Denboro National Bank, a Past Grand Master in the Masonic Lodge—altogether a person of importance in Denboro, and aware of the fact.

Mrs. Bradford and her son had risen. They bade him good evening.

"You haven't broken in on our supper," Margaret assured him. "We were practically through. Sit down, Abijah."

Banks was already bringing forward a chair, but his uncle declined it. "Don't believe I'll sit, Margaret," he said. "Well, young fellow"—addressing his nephew—"you didn't get in to see me this afternoon. Too busy, eh?"

Banks fancied he detected a slight tinge of sarcasm in the question. He colored. "No, Uncle Bije," he answered, "I wasn't too busy."

"Then why didn't you come? I gave up a committee meetin' waitin' for you."

"I'm sorry. I just—well, I—"

His mother helped him out. "Banks didn't realize that it was a definite appointment for to-day," she explained. "He intended to come to-morrow, didn't you, Banks?"

"Yes."

"All right, all right. Only—well, I don't know how it is in the law business, but aboard ship it's pretty generally a mistake to put to-day off for to-morrow. The men who sailed under your father learned that in a hurry. Margaret, have you talked with him about what you and I have talked so much lately?"

His sister-in-law sighed. "No," she confessed, "I haven't, Abijah— not yet."

"Why not? You and I agreed that it ought to be talked about, didn't we?"

"Yes. But—well, he has been at home only a day or two. I wanted us both to be happy as long as we could."

"Happy! Humph! I don't see any reason why you shouldn't be happy if my scheme goes through. A whole lot happier, accordin' to my judgment, than you'd be likely to be any other way. Look here, Margaret, you're not backin' water, are you? You're not lettin' your soft-heartedness over this one chick of yours affect your common sense?"

"No, Abijah."

"You mustn't. And if this boy of yours has got his share of common sense, which, bein' a Bradford, he ought to have, he'll—"

But Banks interrupted. "Wait! Hold on a minute, Uncle Bije," he ordered, in a tone which although pleasant was crisp enough to cause his uncle to turn and stare at him. "Now that you are speaking of common sense, don't you think it might be more sensible to stop calling me a boy? I'm twenty-five years old."

Margaret Bradford smiled. She glanced from her son to her brother- in-law and the smile broadened.

Captain Abijah rubbed his chin. "Humph! So you are, that's a fact," he admitted grudgingly. "I know it, too, but it's hard to realize. You've just got through goin' to school. I belong to another generation and I'm old-fashioned, I guess. When I was twenty-five I'd commanded a ship for two years. When your father was twenty-five he—"

And again his nephew interrupted. "Oh, let's cut out the family history," he suggested impatiently. "Apparently you and mother have been discussing me and my affairs and you haven't thought it worth while to let me in on the matter at all. What is all this about, anyway? Don't you think it is time I knew? After all, it might be as interesting to me as any one, I should imagine."

Abijah Bradford's red face turned redder. People in Denboro were not in the habit of using sarcasm when addressing him—young people especially. He had mid-Victorian convictions concerning the respect due by youth to age. He might have expressed those convictions, but Margaret, catching her son's eye, shook her head ever so slightly.

Banks' tone changed. "I'm sorry, Uncle Bije," he went on quickly. "I didn't mean to be fresh. I only— Wait, Mother, please; I know what I'm doing. I only want to make you both understand that I think it high time you took me into your confidence. Mother has just told me that I made a mistake in not calling on you this afternoon as I intended to do. She says you and I were to have a very serious talk about something or other. If she had told me that at first I should have been on hand, but she didn't. However, we can have it now, can't we?"

Uncle Abijah looked at Margaret. Their eyes met. She rose.

"I must clear the table and do the dishes," she said. "Banks, if you and your uncle will go into the sitting room I'll join you by and by."

Banks turned toward the sitting-room door, but Captain Bije hesitated. He drew a heavy, old-fashioned gold watch from his pocket and looked at the dial.

"It's pretty likely," he growled, "that a couple of the selectmen may drop in on me to-night. I ought to be on deck if they do. You come to my rooms to-morrow mornin' about nine, boy, and we'll have our talk. Meantime, Margaret, if you want to—well, break the ice to him, which seems to me you ought to have done before—you can do it...To-morrow mornin' at nine, then. That won't be too early to fit in with your college habits, will it?" He grinned as he asked the question.

Banks did not even smile. "No, sir," he replied. "It won't be too early. I think it will be a good deal too late. I'd like to get through with this to-night, Uncle Bije."

"Oh, you would, eh? Well, I'm sorry, but I can't stay here any longer to-night. I've told you why."

"Yes, sir, I know. But I can go with you to the hotel. If your friends do come our talk will have to be postponed, I suppose. If they don't we can get on with it. Good night, Mother. I'll be home as soon as I can, but don't sit up for me."

He went into the sitting room and took his hat from the sofa. His uncle, after a moment's perplexed chin rubbing, followed Mrs. Bradford to the kitchen.

"Humph!" he grunted. "What set him out this way all at once? What have you said to him, Margaret?"

"Nothing much. I did tell him that you wanted to talk seriously with him about his plans for the future and about—money matters. That is all I said. The rest of it you said yourself. You weren't very diplomatic, Bije."

"Diplomatic! What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, never mind!...Yes, Banks, he is coming...Abijah, do please be as careful as you can. Make him understand just why you think this will be best for him in the end!"

"Best for him! How about somethin' bein' best for YOU, for a change?"

"I don't really count, and I mustn't. Oh, Abijah, do be considerate with him. He is going to be dreadfully disappointed."

"Bosh! Some disappointments are good for young fellows his age. All right. Then we'll get it over with to-night, provided those selectmen don't turn up. Margaret, don't you worry. I tell you the day's coming when he's goin' to thank us all. It's a great chance for a young lawyer. I'll do my level best to make him see it. You go to bed and to sleep. You will, won't you?"

"I'll go to bed...There, there, Abijah; run along. Good night."

During the walk down Mill Road to the post office neither Banks nor his uncle was conversational. Captain Abijah perfunctorily observed that it was a fine night and Banks agreed with him. Other than this, little was said. The captain's dignity was still slightly ruffled by what he considered freshness on the part of his nephew, and the latter's mind was occupied with disquieting guesses. What was this secret business between his mother and his uncle? It concerned him, but how? And what did his mother mean by saying that money matters were involved?

The Malabar Hotel was an ancient hostelry on Main Street. It was built in the late sixties by Capt. Rinaldo Bassett when, having made money in New Bedford whaling, he retired from the sea. His son, also named Rinaldo, was its present proprietor and manager. In the dingy lobby, with its settees and armchairs and brass cuspidors, a trio of loungers sprawled smoking and watching two others who, in their shirt sleeves, were playing pool on the table in the corner. Behind the counter, where the register lay open, its page for the day blank except for the date, Mr. Bassett was dozing over a newspaper.

Captain Bradford halted momentarily at the foot of the stairs. "Anybody been here to see me, Rinaldo?" he asked.

Mr. Bassett started, blinked and sat up in his chair. "Eh?" he queried. "Oh! No, Cap'n Bije, not a soul."

"All right. If anybody does come I'll be up in my room. Come on, boy."

He led the way to the top of the first flight, then along the corridor, feebly illumined by two kerosene bracket lamps, to the second door from the end of the building. This door he unlocked.

"Stay where you are, son," he ordered, "till I light up." Banks, blinking in the shadows of the musty-smelling corridor, heard the sound of a striking match. "Heave ahead!" called his uncle. "Come aboard."

Captain Abijah occupied the two corner rooms, perhaps the best suite in the hotel. The one on the corner was his bedroom. The other, that which his nephew now entered, was his sitting room. It was of good size, neat and comfortably furnished—a walnut center table with a marble top, two comfortable armchairs, a big wooden rocker, a walnut secretary desk, its lid open and heaped high with letters and papers, a haircloth sofa. On the wall between the windows was a ship's barometer in gimbals. Opposite, by the door, hung a sextant and a silver-plated speaking trumpet. On the third wall were two oil paintings of square-rigged ships, and over the mantel was a third, of a bark this time, and flanked by a chronometer. On the mantel itself were a pair of whale's teeth and a pie-crust "crimper" made of whale ivory. Standing in the corner was a polished narwhal's horn. Over the sofa, in the place of honor, hung the crayon enlargement of Silas Bradford, a replica of the one in the house occupied by Silas Bradford's widow. The room smelt strongly of tobacco, a pleasant contrast to the smells of the rest of the Malabar.

Captain Abijah hung his hat upon the back of the rocker and pointed to an armchair by the center table. "Sit down, Banks," he said. Banks took the armchair. His uncle pulled open one of the drawers of the secretary and took out a box of cigars. "I'm goin' to smoke," he observed. "I generally talk easier when I'm under steam. You haven't taken up smokin' yet, I presume likely."

Banks smiled. "Thank you, sir, I'll smoke," he said. His uncle was rather taken aback. He himself had learned to smoke—and chew—when he was fifteen, but he had forgotten that, just as he persisted in forgetting that his nephew was twenty-five.

"Oh," he grunted, "I— Humph! Well, help yourself."

Banks took one of the cigars—big and black they were—from the box and lighted it with an easy nonchalance which caused his relative to stare at him. Captain Abijah lighted his own and sat down in the other armchair. The pair looked at each other through the smoke.

"Well," observed Abijah.

"Well, Uncle Bije?"

"I suppose likely we might as well get under way, hadn't we?"

"I should say so, sir, decidedly."

"Yes...Humph!...All right. You're through studyin' law; you're a lawyer now, ain't you?"

"Yes, I suppose I am. Ready to be one, anyhow."

"Um-hum. Have you made any plans where you're goin' to begin to be one?"

"Yes, sir. Hasn't mother told you?"

"She's told me a little—nothin' very particular. Suppose you tell me over again."

Banks was quite willing to tell. His great plan, involving the desk in the office of the law firm in Boston, his opportunities there, the closing of the house on Mill Hill, his mother's accompanying him to Boston, their living together in some nice apartment in the Back Bay or in that neighborhood—all these were thoroughly mapped in his mind and had occupied his thoughts for months. He grew enthusiastic as he unfolded the prospect. His uncle listened, not speaking a word until he had finished.

"So," concluded Banks, "those are my plans. They look good to me. What do you think, Uncle Bije?"

Capt. Abijah Bradford knocked the ashes from his cigar into the brass cuspidor which he had thoughtfully kicked into position on the floor between them. He did not say what he thought; he asked a question of his own.

"Have you told Margaret—your mother all this, same as you're tellin' it to me?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"And she didn't raise any objections?"

"No. Why should she?"

"No objections at all? Just sat up and gave three cheers when you told her, eh?"

Banks flushed. "Just what does that mean?" he asked hotly. "Look here; Uncle Bije, it's plain enough that you and mother have something up your sleeve. I wish you'd get it out where I can see it. I'm tired of hints—yes, and sneers. Why not say what you have to say and get it over with?"

Abijah crossed his knees. Again this nephew of his was addressing him in a tone to which he was unaccustomed; but this time he did not appear to resent it. To the young man's surprise, he chuckled grimly. "You've got more sand in your craw than I thought you had," he observed. "You ain't all Banks, I guess. There, there! Keep your hair on. Now about this big scheme of yours. It sounds good enough; for another fellow it might BE good enough; but for you it won't do."

Banks sat up in the armchair. "Won't do!" he repeated in amazement. "What do you mean? It's one chance in a hundred."

"There, there! Let me talk a spell. I mean what I say. For you it won't do, that's all."

"Why won't it do? Don't you understand—"

"I understand, all right. You're the one that doesn't. There are a half dozen reasons why, accordin' to my notion, this plan of yours might not work out as well as some others but we won't bother with but one just now. That one is important enough. It is that you can't afford it."

Banks had expected almost anything, but this he had not expected. To his mind again flashed that puzzling phrase of his mother's— "money matters." He caught his breath.

"Why—why, Uncle Bije," he gasped, "what is it? What has happened? Has—has mother lost money?"

Abijah shook his head. "You can't very well lose what you haven't got," he said. "Your mother hasn't got any money to speak of, and"—with emphasis—"she never has had much of any, not since Silas died."

Banks was completely dumfounded. His mother that very evening had told him that she had little to lose, but he had not taken the statement literally. There had always been money forthcoming to pay his bills at college and at law school. His allowance was not large, but it was sufficient. He had taken for granted the apparent fact that his mother was in comfortable circumstances—not rich by any means, but free from financial worries. And now— Oh, there was a joke in this somewhere, even if it was a poor one and in bad taste. His uncle was watching him intently, and now he brushed his expostulations aside with a brusque wave of a big hand.

"Don't waste time, boy," he ordered. "What I'm tellin' you is the truth, and if you had been my son you'd have known it long ago. I've told your mother so more times than a few—but no, you were her baby and you must have this and that, do what young fellows with ten times your money did, and have your opportunity with the best of 'em. That's what she was always preachin' to me, opportunities and advantages—you must have 'em and you were goin' to have 'em and Hettie and I must keep our mouths shut. Well, I've kept mine shut; you've had your 'advantages.' Now even your mother agrees that you must understand just how things are. Maybe she'd never have told you on her own hook. Most likely she'd have gone on scrimpin' and sacrificin', goin' without clothes and hired help, starvin' herself and livin' on next to nothin', so that you could—"

But Banks had heard enough—for the moment, at least. He broke in. "Nonsense!" he cried in fierce resentment. "You're talking nonsense. Of course you are. Mother—why, mother would have told me if there had been anything like this."

"No, she wouldn't. I'd have told, if I'd had my way, but she wouldn't. She was too soft-headed over you to do anything of the kind. Your father, if he had been alive, would have told you. He was as sensible as he was smart. But not your mother. She was a Banks and they're different. There, there! WILL you sit down in that chair and listen to me? Don't keep puttin' in your oar. You were all on edge to find out what I had up my sleeve. It's out of my sleeve now, part of it. Listen and you'll hear the rest."

But Banks Bradford put in his oar once more; he could not help it. "I'll listen, sir, of course," he said. "But honestly, Uncle Bije, I am sure you're exaggerating, trying to frighten me for some reason or other. Ever since I've been old enough to understand anything I've heard what a brilliant man father was—brilliant as captain, and in business and everything. You just called him smart yourself. Well then, if he was so smart, is it likely he would leave mother with nothing? Hardly, I should say."

Captain Abijah's brow clouded. "I didn't say he left her nothin'," he explained. "I said he didn't leave much. He died just when his firm was in some trouble and—well, we won't go into that. It wasn't Silas' fault, of course. Now—"

"Wait! Father's partners—Mr. Trent and Captain Truman—they were rich men. Mrs. Truman is very rich now. How is it that they had so much money and he had so little? Oh, come, Uncle Bije—"

"Sh-h-h! I tell you we haven't got time to waste on all that to- night. Trent and Truman made the bulk of their money afterwards, in Chicago real estate, lucky speculation and the like of that. But never mind them and never mind how much or how little Silas left. What we're talkin' about now is you, and this plan of yours. As I understand it, your scheme is to shut up the house here, take your mother to Boston with you, hire some expensive flat or somethin', and she is to keep house for you in it while you sit around in that Boston lawyer's office, waitin' till you're of importance enough to earn a dollar. And while you're waitin' her money supports you both, same as it has so far. That's it, isn't it?"

His nephew squirmed in the armchair. Although bluntly and brutally put, and distorted and exaggerated, as he saw it, nevertheless this was essentially his plan. And it was a good plan. Yes, it was. If this stubborn, arrogant old sea dog would only use reason instead of prejudice—

"You don't get it, sir," he protested vehemently. "You don't get it at all. This Mr. Davidson, the head of the firm, is the father of one of my best friends."

"Hold on! hold on! Let's stick to the channel. You won't be paid much wages for the first year or so, will you?"

"Why no, not a great deal probably. I haven't gone into that yet. In fact, the whole thing is rather up in the air until Bill—that's my friend—gets back from the other side."

"Yes, yes. Well, in the air's a good place for it to be, accordin' to my judgment. It had better stay there. Now, son, here are the plain facts. You and your mother can't hire any flat or house in Boston. You haven't got the wherewithal to pay Boston rents. You could, maybe, stick her into a room in a one-horse boardin' house and she could keep on stintin' and doin' without and sacrificin' herself for you. She probably will, too, if you are that kind of a fellow and will let her. But you're not, I hope. If you are your father's son I know you're not...Wait again! I tell you she can't afford to live in the city as her kind ought to live. She can't, and pay your bills too. I know, because I've been her adviser in money matters since Silas died. She's taken my advice about everything—except you. If she'd taken my advice in your quarter things would be easier sailin' for all hands this minute."

Banks tried to protest further, to do more explaining, but words were hard to find. "Well—well," he faltered, "I—oh, I don't know what to say. Of course, if all this is true, and mother has been doing these things for me, I—well, I didn't know it and I'm sorry."

"That's the trouble. You ought to have known it. She ought to have told you."

"And I wouldn't think of taking her to the city unless— Hang it all, Uncle Bije, this is a devil of a thing you're telling me! I can't give up a chance like this one. I won't. I could leave mother at home and go up there by myself, couldn't I? _I_ could live in a one-horse boarding house if I had to."

"Yes, so you could. Might not do you any harm either. But she'd be payin' your bills even then and sacrificin' herself for you same as she always has. Thunderation, boy, can't you see? It's high time you did somethin' for HER. And"—leaning forward and speaking with careful deliberation—"I think I've got the way for you to do it."

His manner was impressive, so impressive that Banks' curiosity overshadowed, for the instant, his fierce disappointment.

"How?" he blurted.

"That's mainly what I got you here to tell you. I've got a chance for you to practice law right here at home. In your own town."

"In Denboro! Me—practice law in Denboro? Oh, for heaven's sake!"

"No, for your mother's sake. And for your own sake, too, in the end. There have been good lawyers in Denboro. One of the best of 'em, Judge Blodgett—you knew him; everybody in Ostable County knew and respected him—has just died. He didn't leave anybody to carry on where he left off. There's a chance there, and a good chance for somebody. My proposition is that you be that somebody. Most of the judge's clients won't, of course, care to trust their important affairs to a green hand like you—not at first, anyhow. But they may be willin' to throw the little ones your way. Some of 'em, I know, will risk that much for the sake of your father's son and my nephew...Now, now, lay to! There's more. I've been doin' a good deal of thinkin' lately on your account, young man, and I want you to hear the rest."

He went on to disclose the results of his thinking. The late Judge Blodgett's law offices in the post-office block opposite the hotel were still vacant. The Blodgett furniture and effects had been removed, of course, but so far no one had taken over the rooms.

"You won't need any such layout as the judge had," he said. "He had three rooms; one'll do you, I guess. Unless you're busier than most beginners, you won't be crowded in that for a spell. And I've made some inquiries and I've got a halfway option on one of the back rooms—the big room in front is too expensive—at a rent that won't break anybody. So far as that goes, I'll undertake to be responsible for that rent myself, for the first year. I'll hire that room for you, buy you a desk and a couple of chairs, or whatever's necessary, and get you started. I'll do that much; after that it's up to you. You won't be lapped in luxury, as the books tell about; you won't look as important and high-toned as you might if those Boston lawyers gave you a desk in their office. But you'll be skipper of your own vessel, you'll be makin' a stab at earnin' your own livin' and, if your mother and I do have to pay your bills a while longer, they won't be city bills. There, that's my proposition to you. It's a good one, I honestly believe. I want you to think it over—and think hard."

He stopped. His cigar had gone out; he threw it into the cuspidor and, taking another from the box on the table, lighted it. Banks Bradford's cigar was out also, but he was unaware of the fact. He was leaning forward in the armchair, staring at the carpet. His world was spinning in circles.

"Well?" queried Captain Abijah after a moment.

Banks looked up. He smiled feebly. "I—I— By George, you've knocked me over, Uncle Bije!" he blurted. "Of course I realize that you're trying to help me, and—and I'm much obliged to you, but—but honestly, I—"

"Well? What?"

"Honestly, I can't believe things are as bad as you say they are. According to you, mother and I are paupers, we always have been paupers."

"Bosh! I never said you were paupers. Your mother's got a little money, although she could have consider'ble more if she'd used common sense with you instead of spoilin' you. You ain't in the poorhouse, or anywhere nigh it. What I'm tryin' to hammer into your head is that it is high time for you to be a man and begin to take the load off her shoulders."

"But you say she has been—been starving herself all these years."

"Sh-h-h! If I said she was starvin' I didn't mean that exactly. I wouldn't have let her starve, so far as that goes. She was my brother's wife, and Silas Bradford's widow wouldn't starve while 'Bijah Bradford was alive, I'll tell you that. Your father was a man, my boy. We were all proud of him. And we're proud of his memory—mighty proud."

"Yes, yes, of course. But mother—"

"Oh," broke in Captain Bije impatiently, "your mother's all right in her way. I tell you I ain't findin' fault with her."

"No"—sharply. "And you're not going to."

"Don't worry. Look here, Banks, this talk of mine to you has been pretty straight. I haven't muffled it down. I wanted to see how much of Silas Bradford there was in you. If there's any consider'ble amount of him in you you'll face the music. I know you're all upset and disappointed, but disappointments are good medicine when you're young. Your father had a lot of 'em in his time."

Banks shifted in the armchair. "Yes, yes, sir, I know," he broke in curtly. "But it's mother I'm thinking of just now. I can't understand—I can't believe—"

His uncle struck the table with his palm. "Ask her, then," he ordered. "Ask her yourself and see what she says."

"I shall. Be sure of that."

"All right...Eh? Yes? What is it?"

Some one had rapped at the door. Now it opened and the bald head of Mr. Rinaldo Bassett was thrust between it and the jamb.

"Cap'n Beals and Emulous Higgins are down below, Cap'n Bije," he drawled. "Emulous says you and them had an appointment or somethin'."

"Yes, so we did. Tell 'em to come along up...Well, Banks," rising to his feet, "it looks as if this was all we'd have time for to-night. Maybe it's enough for the first dose. You ask your mother anything you want to. Then you think over my proposition. Only remember this, because I mean it: If you don't fall in with it, if you go ahead with this Boston foolishness, you'll do it on your own hook. And whatever happens to you and your mother afterward, you'll be responsible—and sorry, I shouldn't wonder. Come and see me when you've thought it out. Good night."

He held out his hand. Banks took it listlessly, said good night and left the room. On the stairs he met the two members of the board of selectmen on the way to the conference with his uncle.