Читать книгу Head Tide - Joseph Crosby Lincoln - Страница 5

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Franklin Cobb was walking briskly along the South Side road. The morning was glorious; in fact so glorious that local prophets would have called it a “weather breeder” and too good to last. The “smoky sou’wester” of the day before had blown itself out, the breeze now came strongly from the northwest and the air was cool and bracing. The horizon, ahead in the direction of the South Side village, with its distant church spire and roofs and tree tops, was as clearly outlined as if cut with scissors and pasted against the deep blue background of the sky. The shadows of the bushes and fence rails bordering the road lay in purple silhouettes upon its dazzlingly white clamshell surface. Exercise was a delight, especially after the long, tedious hours aboard slow moving trains.

Young Mr. Cobb was enjoying himself. And why not? He was young and healthy and heir to—something, although that something might prove to be but little. The old world wasn’t such a bad place and Wellmouth—on this morning, at any rate—not the worst place in it. It must be, however, he decided, the “deadest.” He had met but one individual, since leaving the Four Corners, an elderly man driving a fat, meditative white horse attached to a blue cart loaded with barrels. The barrels and cart smelled enthusiastically of fish and the driver, with his pale blue eyes and half-open mouth, was himself suggestive of a defunct codfish. In acknowledgment of the pedestrian’s “good morning” he languidly nodded but said not a word. Franklin wondered if this were one of the “esteemed citizens” of whose social and business activities he had read in the Eagle. The old fellow was certainly not social, nor did he look as if he were ever active.

South Side village, when he turned the corner into its narrow, winding main road, looked as somnolent as the driver and smelled as fishy as the cart and its contents. The stores and shops were set close together; there was an obviously new church which was a white clapboarded replica of the First Meeting House at the Corners, a “Billiard, Pool and Sipio Parlors”—what “sipio” might be he had not the vaguest idea—and a dingy building with the sign “Masonic Lodge” above the entrance to its second story and “E. Rogers, Fishermen’s Outfitters” lettered over that of the first.

The only show of life were two or three men and boys on the platform of one of the larger stores, an old woman with a market basket plodding along the right hand sidewalk, and perhaps a half dozen horses and vehicles of various kinds hitched at intervals to posts. Where were all the bustle and hustle the Eagle’s excited paragraphs had led him to expect?

As he came opposite the “Billiard, Pool and Sipio Parlors” he heard laughter and strident masculine conversation behind its shaded windows. Apparently there was something going on in there, and for an instant he contemplated entering. He did not however—thereby, although unaware of it, saving himself a black mark on the social ledgers of the South Side’s select and God-fearing citizens. Caleb Ryerson’s billiard room was the “gilded hell” of Wellmouth South Side and carefully respectable people did not visit it.

A sign at the corner of an alley to his left caught his eye. “Blake Brothers, Wholesale Fish Dealers.” Mr. Dodson, he remembered, had spoken of the Blake brothers during their conversation that morning; yes, and the Eagle had had much to say concerning them. He turned into the alley, bordered on one side by the wall of a wooden building and on the other by a board fence, walked along it for perhaps sixty feet and came out upon the harbor front. There was something going on here. He paused to look about him.

The harbor was an artificial one, protected on the sea side by a long stone breakwater, with a beacon at each end. Beyond the breakwater was the open water of the Sound extending to the horizon. Inside the barrier a number of small craft, sloops and catboats lay at anchor and dories were moving back and forth. Before him a good-sized wharf extended out into deep water and two schooners, one topsail rigged and the other a “fore and aft,” were made fast alongside it. To the left, a hundred yards distant, was another wharf and to the right, but farther away, a third. At each end of these, vessels were lying and men were busy. The fresh northwest breeze was heavy with the odor of fish.

The wharf at the landward end of which he was standing was the largest and, so it seemed, by far the busiest at that moment. Aboard each of the schooners lying beside it men were working and on the wharf above them were larger groups, all active and all noisy. Orders were shouted, there was much running about, and a great deal of rough and good-natured profanity.

Franklin Cobb sauntered toward the nearest of these groups. They were unloading fish, mackerel, from the schooner’s hold, hoisting them in buckets by ropes over a pulley, swinging them up to the wharf and running them in barrows into the broad doorway of the building at its landward end.

The men at the pulleys and trundling the barrows were a boisterous, sunburned, broad-shouldered lot, their bare arms corded with muscle and their big hands cracked and seamed by salt water and the handling of wet nets. They seemed in high good humor, particularly one swarthy individual who looked like an Italian or a Latin of some sort and who, seated upon an overturned bucket, was singing at the top of his lungs. The song was not of the Sunday School variety, but he bellowed it no less lustily on that account.

This fellow was the only one of the crowd to notice the approach of the stranger. His comrades were too busy to heed and, although they occasionally joined in the chorus of the ballad, kept on with their work. When the singer stopped in the middle of a verse, however, they turned toward him.

“What’s the matter, Portygee?” asked one. “Forgot the rest of it, have you?”

“Aw, he ain’t forgot, Jim,” said another, with a loud laugh. “Had to stop to get up steam, that’s all. Take another swig at the jug, Manuel. Yes, and pass it ’round.... Why, what ails you, ’Gee? What you lookin’ at?”

“ ’Gee” or “Portygee” or “Manuel”—the individual on the bucket appeared to have a variety of names—was staring with bibulous gravity at Franklin Cobb.

“Looka da hat!” he exclaimed. “Oh, by cripe, looka da hat!”

He pointed a very dirty finger. Every one looked where he pointed, which was at the hat worn by Mr. Cobb. It was a straw hat and its brand-newness was spotlessly obvious. Cobb had bought it just before leaving Cleveland and rather fancied it. To have it called to public attention in this unexpected manner was embarrassing. His face showed his feeling, the crowd surrounding him shouted hilariously.

“It is a hat, that’s a fact!” declared one.

“It’s a new hat,” vowed another.

“It’s a nice new hat, right out of the store, and I’ll bet you a dollar he ain’t wet it yet,” whooped a third.

Cobb grinned. “Don’t you like that hat?” he asked. “What’s the matter with it?”

“Sartin we like it. Only—”

But the swarthy man was rising from his seat on the bucket. He rose a trifle uncertainly, but he rose, and, leaning toward the wearer of the straw hat, expressed his opinion.

“I don’ like it,” he growled, thickly. “I don’ like it. It’s a scousy hat. I’m goin’ to—to chuck it overboard.”

He made a sudden snatch, but Franklin jerked his head out of the way.

“Gimme dat hat,” growled Manuel, with another grab in the general direction of the Cobb headgear. “Gimme it—you! By cripe, you don’t I break your neck.”

One of the fishermen, a man older than the majority, interfered.

“Heave to, Portygee,” he ordered. “You’ve had too much Fourth of July juice ahead of time. Let the boy alone, Seth. You’ll have the old man out here and afoul of you, fust thing you know.”

But the larger part of his comrades were not as easily satisfied.

“Back water there, Cal,” commanded the man addressed as Seth. “We ain’t goin’ to hurt the dude none. But this is Fourth of July time, and a new hat has to be wet Fourth of July, don’t it, boys?”

“You bet!”

“Sure’s you live!”

The agreement was general. “Cal” shook his head but he said no more. With a glance over his shoulder at the open door of the building at the head of the wharf, he backed from the group and turned again to his place by the pulley ropes. No one paid attention to him, however; even the hands aboard the schooners were scrambling ashore to join the crowd surrounding Cobb and the Portuguese.

“See how ’tis, Willie boy,” chuckled Seth. “That new hat of yours has got to be wet, that’s all there is to it. Soon’s it is wet right and proper we’ll let you run home to mama. Be nice now and don’t make no fuss.”

Cobb objected to being addressed as “Willie boy.” He was annoyed, but his common sense held his temper in leash. He had no yearning for trouble. Obviously this was a tough crew, the sort of gang who had extended hospitality to the Boston “drummer” in Dodson’s narrative.

“What do you mean—wet?” he asked, pleasantly enough. The question was received with a roar of laughter.

“Well, I’ll tell you, Willie. It’s the habit hereabouts when a feller’s got somethin’ brand-new, like that tony hat of yours, to take a drink all ’round on it. That’s what we call wettin’ it. See?”

Franklin saw, but only partially.

“I don’t mind standing you fellows a drink,” he said, “but where can I buy drinks around here?”

There was another loud laugh. “You don’t have to buy none. We’ve attended to that already. All you got to do is stand by while we take a dose apiece and then take a good healthy one yourself. Where’s the jug, Jim? Portygee was afoul of it a minute ago.”

A two-gallon jug was produced from beside the water bucket. Seth swung it to his shoulder.

“A good beginnin’ makes a job half done,” he announced. “Well, here’s down the road and back again!”

Before his lips touched the mouth of the jug the latter was pulled from his grasp. It was the Portuguese, Manuel, who seized it. With his other hand he snatched the straw hat from its owner’s head.

“We giva da dicer one first, eh, boys?” he crowed. Before any one could remonstrate or interfere, he splashed at least a quarter-pint of cheap whisky into the crown of the new straw hat.

And then Franklin Cobb forgot all about his disinclination for trouble. His fist caught the whooping Manuel full on his prominent nose. The Portuguese fell backward over the bucket and his head struck the wharf with a hollow crack. The jug flew from his hand and fell upon the fish nets. The hat flew in the opposite direction. Franklin stepped forward and retrieved it; the others rushed to the rescue of the jug.

Manuel was up almost as quickly as he went down. His dark face was distorted, and his black eyes flashed fire.

“By gor, I keela you for dat!” he roared and plunged forward. But Seth and Jim and one or two of the others were in his way and he tripped and fell again. Men were running from all parts of the wharf. There was much shouting and excitement.

Seth took charge of the situation.

“Easy, ’Gee,” he ordered. “Hang on to him a minute, Jim. Get back there, you fellers. Give ’em room.”

The crowd drew back. Franklin found himself on the inner edge of a closely packed circle, with the gesticulating, howling Manuel at its opposite side. He glanced over his shoulder. There was no way out. He had let himself in for a fight and a fight was the last thing he desired. He was not afraid, but he was very much chagrined. This would be a nice introduction of Beriah Higham’s nephew to Wellmouth.

But there was to be no fight. As he stood there, awaiting the onslaught by his antagonist, he was pushed unceremoniously to one side. Turning to see who had pushed him he found himself regarding a new arrival, a man he had not seen before. There was no doubt of that, for, having once seen him, he could not have forgotten. Cobb’s first impression was that this was almost, if not quite, the biggest man he had ever seen outside of a show. Six feet three at least; lean, broad-shouldered, blue eyed, sunburned to a brick red, a small sandy mustache above a square jaw. He was dressed in blue trousers and a blue waistcoat and was without a coat. The stub of a cigar was in the corner of his mouth.

“Well,” he asked, quietly, his gaze moving about the circle, “what’s goin’ on here? Eh?”

No one answered. The outer fringe of the circle was melting away. The inner ring, men who were hemmed in and couldn’t escape, shifted uneasily on their feet.

“What’s the trouble, Seth?” asked the big man, turning to that individual. Seth looked sheepish.

“Why, nawthin’ much, Cap’n,” he stammered. “Some of the boys havin’ a little fun, that’s all. Day afore the Fourth, you know.”

“I know,” crisply. “Manuel, you look a little mite peevish; what ails you?”

The Portuguese was still gesticulating and spluttering profanity.

“He puncha me in da face, dat sucker dere,” he snarled, pointing at Cobb. “No man do dat to me. You let go of me, Jim Holway. By gar, you just watch—”

“Shut up, Manuel! Well,” turning to Franklin, “is that so? Did you punch him? What for?”

Cobb was calm enough outwardly. “Sorry to make a row,” he said. “I didn’t intend to. That fellow grabbed my hat and was—well, doing things to it that I didn’t like. So I did something to him, that’s all.”

“Yes,” dryly, “looks so, judgin’ by his nose. Here, Jim, you probably know about this. You and Seth are liable to be mixed up in most of what goes on—unless it’s hard work. What’s the yarn? Let’s have it.”

Jim, still retaining his clutch upon the furious Portuguese, swallowed, stammered and then made answer.

“ ’Tain’t nawthin’, Cap’n Carmi. That fellow there,” indicating Franklin, “was struttin’ ’round here with a new dude hat on and—well, bein’ as all hands could see ’twas new, we thought he ought to wet it. When Manuel grabbed the jug and started to pour—er—er—some of what was in the jug into the hat, this fellow got mad and biffed him.”

“Jug, eh? Seems to me I said that anybody who brought a jug or a bottle onto this wharf was apt to be sorry. Who brought it?”

No one answered.

“Where is it now?”

The jug was standing, its cork carefully replaced, beside the overturned water bucket. The big man strode across the ring, picked it up, removed the cork and sniffed.

“Humph!” he grunted. “Kill at a mile, that stuff.”

He walked to the edge of the wharf and threw the jug as far as his long arm could send it. There was a stifled groan from the crowd.

“That’s that,” he observed. “Well, Manuel, what’s on your mind?”

There seemed to be much on Manuel’s mind. He jerked himself free from Jim’s grasp and performed a sort of Comanche war dance.

“What you do dat for?” he screeched. “Dat was mine. I pay two dollars for dat whisky. By gar, you got no right—”

He did not finish the sentence. The big man seized him by the collar and the rear of his scale-spattered overalls, propelled him to the wharf edge and threw him after the jug. There was a tremendous splash, a joyful howl from the crowd and a general rush to the stringpiece.

“If you want it swim for it,” said the big man.

The Portuguese was swimming but not toward the spot where the jug had sunk. He pawed his way to shoal water and waded to the beach.

“Go ’round to the office and get what money’s comin’ to you,” his conqueror called after him. “And don’t you ever let me catch you around this property or aboard one of our vessels again. Get!”

Manuel “got.” He disappeared around the landward end of the long building. The big man turned to the others.

“All hands satisfied now?” he asked, cheerfully. “Nothin’ to say? All right, then get to work. These two schooners must be empty by one o’clock. After they are, you can get drunk and be put in the lockup, if it’s your notion of a good time; but now—move!”

The unloading began again. Cobb hastened after his rescuer who was strolling toward the building.

“I’m a whole lot obliged to you,” he declared, earnestly. “And I’m mighty sorry to have made all this trouble. I walked down from the Four Corners and turned in here just by chance. This fish business is new to me and I was watching the work when—when all this started.”

“All right, all right. No trouble—that is, no more than what we expect day before the Fourth. Nobody hurt but that Portugee and water hadn’t ought to hurt him inside or out. Too bad about your hat. Spoiled, is it?”

The straw hat dripped with bad whisky and smelled to high heaven, but its owner laughingly replied that he guessed it wasn’t hurt much. Just then another man, also tall and broad-shouldered, but older and wearing spectacles, hailed his companion from the doorway of the fish shed.

“Nothin’ serious, was it, Carmi?” he asked.

“No, no, Bi. All over now. Everything smooth as a smelt.”

He joined the man in the doorway and they entered the building together. Franklin Cobb looked after them. One of the barrow pushers was passing and he detained him.

“Who are those two?” he inquired. “That big chap and the other.”

“Eh? Them? Oh, they’re Blake Brothers. Own this wharf and them two schooners and a lot more. The one with the specs is Abiathar Blake. T’other, him that chucked the Portygeezer overboard, is Cap’n Carmi. Be consider’ble of a feller when he gets his growth, won’t he?”

He went on, chuckling. Franklin walked through the alley to the main road.

It was almost six o’clock when he entered the gateway of the little Dodson home. The gate itself, he noticed, had been lifted from its hinges and was nowhere in sight. Elisha met him at the side door.

“Well, well!” he exclaimed, “you’ve made quite a day of it. Nellie and I had begun to think maybe you’d gone over to Ostable to hunt up Judge Dean, after all. I told her I wouldn’t blame you if you had. If it was me I’d gone there if I had to walk. Though,” he added, “if anybody left me anything in a will I probably wouldn’t be able to walk.”

At the supper table their guest told of his tramp to the South Side and a portion of his later experiences there. He had wandered about, lunched at a boarding house recommended by one of the shopkeepers, and spent the first part of the afternoon at the South Side, and the hours between four and six at the Corners.

“I have looked those two sections of your town over pretty thoroughly, Miss Dodson,” he said.

Elisha nodded. “It’s a pretty fine town, too; I guess you’ll agree to that,” was his comment. “Of course the Four Corners is the finest part of it, but there’s consider’ble goin’ on down to the South Side these times, I’ll own up.”

Cobb smiled. “I found something going on there,” he observed.

Helen turned to look at him. “Now what does that mean?” she asked, quickly. “You haven’t told us everything, Mr. Cobb, I guess.”

“Well, no, I haven’t. I had a lively experience there this morning. Not as lively as it might have been—but lively enough while it lasted.”

He told of his visit to the Blake wharf and his adventure with Manuel and the rest.

“So I had to buy a new hat,” he said, in conclusion. “Mr. Elkanah Rogers—I think that was his name—sold it to me. He had a fresh stock just come in. Said he did a pretty good trade in hats after the Fourth. I should say he might, if what happened to mine was a sample.”

His hearers were interested and excited, Mr. Dodson particularly.

“Well, by gorry!” he exclaimed. “Say, I know that Portugee. He’s no account and always was. So Cap’n Carmi hove him overboard. Well, well! That’s just like Carmi Blake. That’s one reason why he is so popular.”

“I doubt if he is popular with Manuel just now. He saved me from a rough and tumble though, and I’m grateful to him. What a whale of a man he is! You know him well, I suppose?”

Helen nodded. “Yes, we know him,” she said briefly.

Her father stared. “Why, how you talk, Nellie!” he exclaimed. “Know him? Know Carmi Blake? Why, of course we do. Everybody does, far’s that goes; he’s gettin’ to be a pretty big man in Wellmouth.”

“Getting to be?” Franklin Cobb whistled.

“Oh, I don’t mean big up and down and across. He’s that all right. I mean big in town affairs, politics and the like of that. He skippers that mackerel schooner you saw down to his wharf. As for our knowin’ him—Nellie and I—why, he drops in to see us here at the house two or three times a week when he’s in port. Nobody knows Cap’n Carmi better than Nellie and I do. That’s so, ain’t it, Nellie?”

Miss Dodson changed the subject.

“Have you had enough supper, Mr. Cobb?” she asked. “All right, then you and Father go into the sitting room while I do the dishes. You’re sure you’ve locked up everything, Father? This is the night before the Fourth, you know.”

Cobb went to his room early. He was tired after his long walk and fell asleep almost immediately. He dreamed a good deal—fried clams and doughnuts for supper are a combination conducive to dreaming—and he woke from one particularly distressing nightmare to hear the First Meeting House bell ringing frantically and the distant popping of firecrackers. Wellmouth Four Corners had evidently begun to celebrate.

He rose and went to the chair by the window. The northwest wind had died away and a heavy fog, almost a drizzle, had drifted up from the Sound. The night outside was black and wet. Along the South Side road all was quiet.

That is, it was quiet at first. Then, along that road from the direction of the Corners came a peculiar murmur. The tread of many feet, the occasional jolt of a heavy wheel, the low grumble of voices. The sounds drew nearer. Franklin, leaning from his open window, could see nothing, but he could hear. People—a good many people—were coming down the road. Some one gave an order in a hoarse whisper.

“Easy with that truck, Hosea, can’t you! If you can’t be quieter than that, the whole South Side will be up waitin’ for us.”

The listener at the window lit a match and looked at his watch. A quarter to three. The doughnuts and clam fritters were not tempting him to sleep again, and, besides, he was curious. He remembered Dodson’s story about the two old cannon, and what had happened to them the year before. He jumped from the chair and, lighting the lamp on the table, began putting on his clothes. Then he blew out the light and tiptoed carefully downstairs to the door.