Читать книгу The Depot Master - Joseph Crosby Lincoln - Страница 8

“And that's the way he made his money! HIM! Why, he's the most respected man in this neighborhood, and goes to church, and—”

“Yes. Well, if you make money ENOUGH you can always be respected—by some kinds of people—and find some church that'll take you in. Ain't that so, Bailey?”

Captain Stitt and his cousin, Obed Gott, the paint dealer, were standing in the doorway of the station. They now entered.

“I guess it's so,” replied Stitt, pulling up a chair, “though I don't know what you was talkin' about. However, it's a pretty average safe bet that what you say is so, Sol, 'most any time. What's the special 'so,' this time?”

“We was talkin' about Mr. Williams,” began Phinney.

“The Grand Panjandrum of East Harniss,” broke in the depot master. “East Harniss is blessed with a great man, Bailey, and, like consider'ble many blessin's he ain't entirely unmixed.”

Obed and Simeon looked puzzled, but Captain Stitt bounced in his chair like a good-natured rubber ball. “Ho! ho!” he chuckled, “you don't surprise me, Sol. We had a great man over to South Orham three years ago and he begun by blessin's and ended with—with t'other thing. Ho! ho!”

“What do you mean?” demanded Sim.

“Why, I mean Stingy Gabe. You've heard of Stingy Gabe, ain't you?”

“I guess we've all heard somethin' about him,” laughed Captain Sol; “but we're willin' to hear more. He was a reformer, wa'n't he?”

“He sartin was! Ho! ho!”

“For the land sakes, tell it, Bailey,” demanded Mr. Gott impatiently. “Don't sit there bouncin' and gurglin' and gettin' purple in the face. Tell it, or you'll bust tryin' to keep it in.”

“Oh, it's a great, long—” began Captain Bailey protestingly.

“Go on,” urged Phinney. “We've got more time than anything else, the most of us. Who was this Stingy Gabe?”

“Yes,” urged Gott, “and what did he reform?”

Captain Stitt held up a compelling hand. “It's all of a piece,” he interrupted. “It takes in everything, like an eatin'-house stew. And, as usual in them cases, the feller that ordered it didn't know what was comin' to him.

“Stingy Gabe was that feller. His Sunday name was Gabriel Atkinson Holway, and his dad used to peddle fish from Orham to Denboro and back. The old man was christened Gabriel, likewise. He owed 'most everybody, and, besides, was so mean that he kept the scales and trimmin's of the fish he sold to make chowder for himself and family. All hands called him 'Stingy Gabe,' and the boy inherited the name along with the fifteen hundred dollars that the old man left when he died. He cleared out—young Gabe did—soon as the will was settled and afore the outstandin' debts was, and nobody in this latitude see hide nor hair of him till three years ago this comin' spring.

“Then, lo and behold you! he drops off the parlor car at the Orham station and cruises down to South Orham, bald-headed and bay-windowed, sufferin' from pomp and prosperity. Seems he'd been spendin' his life cornerin' copper out West and then copperin' the corners in Wall Street. The folks in his State couldn't put him in jail, so they sent him to Congress. Now, as the Honorable Atkinson Holway, he'd come back to the Cape to rest his wrist, which had writer's cramp from signin' stock certificates, and to ease his eyes with a sight of the dear old home of his boyhood.

“Bill Nickerson comes postin' down to me with the news.

“'Bailey,' says he, 'what do you think's happened? Stingy Gabe's struck the town.'

“'For how much?' I asks, anxious. 'Don't let him have it, whatever 'tis.'

“Then he went on to explain. Gabe was rich as all get out, and 'twas his intention to buy back his old man's house and fix it up for a summer home. He was delighted to find how little change there was in South Orham.

“'No matter if 'tain't but fifteen cents he'll get it, if the s'lectmen don't watch him,' I says; and the bills, too. I know HIS tribe.'

“'You don't understand,' says Nickerson. 'He ain't no thief. He's rich, I tell you, and he's cal'latin' to do the town good.'

“'Course he is,' I says. 'It runs in the family. His dad done it good, too—good as 'twas ever done, I guess.'

“But next day Gabe himself happens along, and I see right off that I'd made a mistake in my reckonin'. The Honorable Atkinson Holway wa'n't figgerin' to borrow nothin'. When a chap has been skinnin' halibut, minnows are too small for him to bother with. Gabe was full of fried clams and philanthropy.

“'By Jove! Stitt,' he says, 'livin' here has been the dream of my life.'

“'You'll be glad to wake up, won't you?' says I. 'I wish I could.'

“'I tell you,' he says, 'this little old village is all right! All it needs is a public-spirited resident to help it along. I propose to be the P.S. R.'

“And on that program he started right in. Fust off he bought his dad's old place, built it over into the eight-sided palace that's there now, fetched down a small army of servants skippered by an old housekeeper, and commenced to live simple but complicated. Then, havin' provided the needful charity for himself, he's ready to scatter manna for the starvin' native.

“He had a dozen schemes laid out. One was to build a free but expensive library; another was to pave the main road with brick; third was to give stained-glass windows and velvet cushions to the meetin' house, so's the congregation could sleep comfortable in a subdued light. The stained-glass idee put him in close touch with the minister, Reverend Edwin Fisher, and the minister suggested the men's club. And he took to that men's club scheme like an old maid to strong tea; the rest of the improvements went into dry dock to refit while Admiral Gabe got his men's club off the ways.

“'Twas the billiard room that made the minister hanker for a men's club. That billiard room was the worry of his life. Old man Jotham Gale run it and had run it sence the Concord fight, in a way of speakin'. You remember his sign, maybe: 'Jotham W. Gale. Billiard, Pool, and Sipio Saloon. Cigars and Tobacco. Tonics and Pipes. Minors under Ten Years of Age not Admitted.' Jotham's customers was called, by the outsiders, 'the billiard-room gang.'

“The billiard room gang wa'n't the best folks in town, I'll own right up to that. Still, they wa'n't so turrible wicked. Jotham never sold rum, and he'd never allow no rows in his place. But, just the same, his saloon was reckoned a bad influence. Young men hadn't ought to go there—most of us said that. If there was a nicer place TO go, argues the minister, 'twould help the moral tone of the community consider'ble. 'Why not,' says he to Stingy Gabe, 'start a free club for men that'll make the billiard room look like the tail boat in a race?' And says Gabe: 'Bully! I'll do it.'”

Captain Stitt paused long enough to enjoy a chuckle all by himself. Before he had quite finished his laugh, slow and reluctant steps were heard on the back platform and Issy appeared on the threshold. He was without the package, but did not look happy.

“Well, Is,” inquired the depot master, “did you give the remains to the Major?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Issy.

“Did you tell him how the shockin' fatality happened? How the thing got broken?”

“Yes, sir, I told him.”

“What did he say? Didn't let his angry passions rise, did he?”

“No-o; no, sir, he didn't rise nothin'. He didn't get mad neither. But you could see he felt pretty bad. Talked about 'old family glass' and 'priceless airloons' or some such. Said much as he regretted to, he should feel it no more'n justice to have somebody pay damages.”

“Humph!” Captain Sol looked very grave. “Issy, I can see your finish. You'll have to pay for somethin' that's priceless, and how are you goin' to do that? 'Old family glass,' hey? Hum! And I thought I saw the label of a Boston store on that package.”

Obed Gott leaned forward eagerly.

“Is that Major Hardee you're talkin' about?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. He's the only Major we've got. Cap'ns are plenty as June bugs, but Majors and Gen'rals are scarce. Why?”

“Oh, nothin'. Only—” Mr. Gott muttered the remainder of the sentence under his breath. However, the depot master heard it and his eye twinkled.

“You're glad of it!” he exclaimed. “Why, Obed! Major Cuthbertson Scott Hardee! I'm surprised. Better not let the women folks hear you say that.”

“Look here!” cried Captain Stitt, rather tartly, “am I goin' to finish that yarn of mine or don't you want to hear it?”

“BEG your pardon, Bailey. Go on. The last thing you said was what Stingy Gabe said, and that was—”