Читать книгу Head Tide - Joseph Crosby Lincoln - Страница 8

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The Joel Dean residence was a white house on the main road about an eighth of a mile beyond the Higham printing office. It was what New Englanders of that section used to call a “square top”; that is, a two story house sitting broadside to the street, with a colonial doorway in the middle, and a huge chimney in the center of the roof. It was painted white, and the window blinds were, of course, green. The walk leading to the front door was of brick, bordered by trimmed hedges. The walk was very straight, swept very clean, and the hedges were trimmed with exact evenness. There was—or so it seemed to Franklin Cobb as he approached its front door—an air of self-satisfied respectability about the establishment. To his fancy it seemed to advertise its owner as a person of strict party regularity and unswerving orthodoxy, one who had made those qualities pay.

He pulled the glass knob beside the door. Within, apparently at the end of a long hall, a spring bell jolted and clanked, the clankings dying away to a quivering jingle. After an interval—a decorous, dignified interval—footsteps sounded at the other side of the door and it was opened. A feminine head, bespectacled and white-capped, looked out.

“Well, young man?” inquired the owner of the head.

Cobb had learned from the Dodsons that Joel Dean was a widower and that his housekeeper’s name was Higgins. He lifted his hat.

“Is the judge in?” he asked.

Mrs. Higgins opened the door a very little way. She gave him an appraising inspection.

“What do you want to see the judge for?” she asked, crisply. “If you’re sellin’ law books or anything it won’t be any use. He’s been away and he’s just got back and he’s busy.”

“I’m not selling anything. I want to see him because—well, because I know he wants to see me.”

“Oh, does he? What for? Does he know you’re comin’?”

“No, but I have a letter from him. My name is Cobb. If you tell him that I think he’ll understand.”

Mrs. Higgins said “Umph.” Then, after a moment, she added, “Well, I’ll tell him. You stay here.”

She went away, closing the door carefully behind her. Franklin grinned, looked up and down the road, and waited. When she returned her manner was more gracious.

“Come in,” she ordered. “Judge Dean says he’ll see you. I declare I don’t know how to act when a stranger rings this bell nowadays. There’s so many everlastin’ peddlers and book agents around, and the judge gets so provoked when I let ’em in that—Here’s the man, Judge. He’s in there, Mr.—er—What’s-your-name. Go right in.”

She opened a door opening from the hall. Cobb entered. The room was a sort of combination sitting room and library. There were two cases of books along one wall, gilt-framed steel engravings and “crayon-enlarged” portraits hung about, a black walnut sofa upholstered in black haircloth, several walnut and haircloth chairs, a tall “gas burner” stove in a corner and a walnut table-desk by a window. The windows, there were two of them, were topped with lambrequins and hung with lace curtains.

At the table-desk, in an armchair, sat Judge Joel Dean. He looked just as Franklin Cobb, his imagination helped by Elisha Dodson’s sketchy description, had expected him to look.

The judge stroked his beard and looked at his caller. The caller bowed and said, “How do you, sir?”

Dean cleared his throat. “How do you?” he repeated, with dignity. “Well, Mr.—er—Hobbs, what can I do for you? Mrs. Higgins, my housekeeper, tells me that you have a letter from me. I don’t remember writing it, but I write a good many letters and I may have forgotten.”

“My name isn’t Hobbs, Judge Dean. I am Franklin Cobb, from Cleveland—Beriah Higham’s nephew, you know.”

The lawyer’s demeanor underwent a great change. It might be an exaggeration to say that he sprang to his feet—it had been many a day since he sprang to anything—but he certainly rose from his chair with almost undignified alacrity.

“Why, dear me!” he exclaimed. “Why, dear me! Yes, yes, of course. I beg your pardon, Mr. Cobb. That—er—woman of mine is a trifle hard of hearing—Yes, yes! Well, well! I am very glad indeed to see you, Mr. Cobb. Sit down, sit down.”

He came from behind the desk and shook his visitor’s hand. He pressed him into a chair.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Cobb,” he declared. “I have been a good deal disturbed by getting no answer to my letter and telegram. My friend Higham’s nephew! Well, well! Your uncle’s sudden—er—passing away was a heavy blow to me—and to all Wellmouth, Mr. Cobb. When did you arrive?”

Franklin told of his arrival and of the Dodsons and their hospitality. He said nothing of his participation in the cannon episode.

“Yes, yes.” The Dean head bowed with patronizing graciousness. “I know the Dodsons well. They are very—er—respectable people.... Of course,” with a keen glance from behind the gold-rimmed spectacles, “they know who you are and why you came?”

“I told them. But,” quickly, “I am sure that made no difference. Judging from what I have seen of them, I am sure they would have been just as kind to any one else under the circumstances.”

“Oh, no doubt, no doubt. Did—er—Elisha mention my calling on him at the Eagle office night before last?”

“He said you did call, but that was all.”

“I see, I see. Yes, yes.... Well, now, Mr. Cobb, what are your plans? How much time have you to spend with us here in Wellmouth?”

The young man was tempted to reply that he had more time than money to spend anywhere, but he did not yield to the temptation. He explained that he had no definite plans, having hurried to Wellmouth as soon as he received the lawyer’s letter. He added that the news of his legacy had come as a great surprise to him; he had not known, or had forgotten, that he had an uncle.

Dean nodded. “Beriah gave me to understand that his sister—your mother, Mr. Cobb—and he had some—er—slight disagreement at one time. A good while ago, I believe he said it was. Something about the division of your grandfather’s property, I gathered, but he gave me no particulars. It could not have been very serious, I should say; certainly he held no grudge, for he has made you his heir, his only heir.”

“Yes, so you wrote. It seems scarcely possible.”

“It is a fact. All that your uncle owned—everything—is yours under the will.”

Franklin drew a long breath. Judge Dean regarded him keenly.

“Don’t expect too much,” he cautioned, after a moment. “Beriah Higham was not rich, I tried to make that plain in my letter.”

“Oh, I know. Honestly, Judge Dean, I haven’t really dared expect anything. Is there anything? Anything beside the printing business and the paper? The Dodsons told me about them and Mr. Dodson showed me the shop and the presses yesterday.”

“Oh!” thoughtfully. “He did?”

“Yes. You were away, and I didn’t have anything particular to do, so I went up to the shop with him.”

“I see.” The judge stroked his beard. “Well,” he said, “the printing business is not a—er—large affair. You realized that, of course. It wouldn’t be in a town like this. And the paper—the Eagle—well, you know what a country weekly is, Mr. Cobb. Not a Boston Advertiser, exactly.”

“I suppose not.”

“No.... You are—er”—another glance through the spectacles—“you are not a newspaper man, Mr. Cobb?”

“Don’t know the least thing about it.”

“So I imagined. Then I suppose you will wish to dispose of that outfit, the business, including the Eagle, as soon as possible?”

“Sell them, you mean?”

“Why—er—yes. Turn them into something tangible—that is, money.”

“Could that be done? Do you know of any one who would be likely to buy them, Mr. Dean?”

Joel Dean waved his hand. He smiled pleasantly. “That remains to be seen. We never can tell till we try, Mr. Cobb. I may have an idea—ahem—but that we will consider later, of course. Plenty of time for that.”

“I don’t know,” doubtfully. “I shall need whatever money I can get; need it now, so far as that goes. I am out a job, as it happens, and so, if I decide not to stay in Wellmouth, the sooner the whole estate is turned into cash the better, I should say.”

Judge Dean leaned back in his chair. The eyes behind the spectacles narrowed.

“If you decide,” he repeated, slowly. “Have you been thinking of staying here—permanently?”

Franklin Cobb hesitated. “I don’t know why I said that, exactly,” he confessed. “I haven’t decided anything. I have been working in a Chicago bank, but that is over and done with, and I never liked it, anyhow. I must work somewhere though, and the sooner the better.”

Dean was smiling again. “You are a city man, aren’t you, Mr. Cobb?” he asked.

“Yes. That is, I have never lived in a town as small as this, if that is what you mean.”

“Exactly. Well, Wellmouth is a good town. It is my town and I am—ahem—proud of it. But I am old enough to be your father. If I were young again—”

He paused. Cobb finished the sentence for him. “You would go somewhere else?” he suggested.

“Oh, I’m not sure of that. I have—er—I think I may say that I have—er—got on fairly well as a country lawyer. But,” impressively, “I was born here, I am accustomed to country ways. Wellmouth is—er—Wellmouth. It isn’t Chicago, for instance. There are opportunities for a young man in a large city—great opportunities.”

“I wish I knew one of them just now.... But you’re probably right. Then you advise me to sell my uncle’s business as soon as possible and for what it will bring? Is that it?”

The Dean smile broadened. “That is a decision you must make, Mr. Cobb.”

“I know, but I am asking your advice.”

“Well, then, speaking not only as a lawyer but as your friend—I was your uncle’s friend and I should like to be yours—”

“Thank you. As a friend then, your advice is—sell out?”

“Why—er—everything considered, frankly—yes.”

“I see. Much obliged.”

Franklin looked at the floor. Joel Dean stroked his beard and looked at him. Suddenly the young man raised his eyes.

“Judge Dean,” he said, bluntly, “I believe you do know some one who might buy that print shop and the Eagle. Do you, sir?”

The judge seemed a trifle disconcerted. He met his visitor’s look for a moment, then fumbled with the papers on his desk. He turned one of them over.

“It seems to me,” he observed, “that you are taking a good deal for granted. That is what we lawyers would call a leading question, Mr. Cobb. What makes you think I know anything of the kind? I didn’t say that I did.”

“No; but you said you had an idea and the way you said it set me to wondering if you hadn’t some particular person in mind. Have you?”

Dean turned the sheet of paper back to its original position. He still seemed somewhat put out.

“You are a sharp young man,” was his comment. “I—er—mustn’t answer your question directly; I am—er—not empowered to do so.... I will say this: I do know of a certain group of substantial responsible people here in Wellmouth, who, rather than see a long-established business like Mr. Higham’s go out of existence altogether, might—I say might—possibly consider taking it over at a low figure. Just as a matter of sentiment, of course. They might—or they might not. That is all I can say now.”

Franklin nodded. “Well, that’s something, anyway.”

“Something, but not very definite. However, all that can wait—a little while, at any rate. Now I suppose you would like to know more about your inheritance, the rest of it, I mean—what that amounts to.”

“There is something else then?”

“Oh, yes, not a great deal, I told you that. The will is in my safe at the law office, we’ll see that later, but I have a list here of the stock and securities and you and I might go over it together. Here it is. Pull up your chair.”

The list was not a long one, but to Franklin Cobb the items were welcome surprises. When the inspection was finished, he found himself struggling to realize that he was the possessor of a trifle over three thousand dollars in stocks and bonds. Considering that his hitherto available resources had dwindled to less than six hundred dollars in the savings bank this was a windfall indeed. And there were, so Dean informed him, a few books and some furniture in the rooms his late uncle had occupied. They might be sold at auction, although the return would not be likely to exceed another hundred and fifty, if as much.

They rose from the desk as the clock struck six, having fixed upon ten the next morning as the hour for another conference, this one to be at the lawyer’s office. Dean accompanied him to the door and shook hands with him at parting.

“I should be very happy to have you make my house your home while you are with us here in Wellmouth, Mr. Cobb,” he said. “I am alone now, since my wife’s—er—passing. Mrs. Higgins and I will do our best to make you comfortable. I know every one in the town and, if you care to meet the—er—best people, I should be glad to introduce you.”

Cobb thanked him. “I have promised to stay with the Dodsons to-night,” he explained. “After that—well, I haven’t any definite plans. You’re very kind, Judge Dean.”

“Not at all, not at all. You are my friend Higham’s nephew, I don’t forget that. To-morrow at ten at my office. Good night, Mr. Cobb.”

Franklin, as he walked down the South Side road, thought over the interview. As to accepting the Dean offer of hospitality his decision was already made. The idea of spending more time than was necessary in that gloomily majestic abode, with the prim Mrs. Higgins and her patronizingly dignified employer, was not in the least appealing to a person of his years.

As to Judge Joel R. Dean himself, his impressions were mixed. The lawyer had been gracious and cordial, almost effusively so, but he had not been altogether open and frank with the nephew of his “dear friend” Higham. In fact he had admitted as much, under pressure. He had advised the sale of the print shop and the Wellmouth Eagle and, then, a minute later, had hinted at knowledge of a “group” who might possibly buy if the price were low enough. Further than this he would not go, saying that he was “not empowered” to do so.

That must mean that the “group”—whoever they might be—had discussed the subject and that Judge Dean had either taken part in those discussions or knew all about them. The “not empowered” phrase sounded as if he might have been present in the capacity of legal advisor. Was it possible that he, himself, was one of the group?

Two things seemed certain: The Higham business was a saleable property; and certain people considered it worth buying. These certainties were, as he had said to the lawyer, something, but the terms of the sale were something else. It behooved Franklin Cobb—who had recently heard himself characterized as a “sharp young man”—to be careful, to watch his step. There was something behind this, something that Judge Dean was keeping from him.

Supper was waiting when he entered the Dodson dining room. Elisha was hovering about and Cobb expected to be bombarded with questions concerning his session with Judge Dean, but the little man asked not a single one. Helen, when he came in, was dressed in what their guest imagined to be her best gown. It was simple, but in good taste and very becoming, so he thought. She laughingly explained.

“Excuse the best bib and tucker, Mr. Cobb,” she said. “I am going to the dance this evening, that’s all. Now, Father, we’re ready.”

Mr. Dodson bent his head and galloped through a blessing. He looked appealingly at Cobb and then at his daughter when he had finished. She caught the look and smiled.

“No, Father,” she continued. “You know what I told you. It isn’t our business. Give Mr. Cobb some of the fish.”

Franklin, too, had noticed the exchange of looks.

“I suppose you’d like to hear what the judge had to say to me,” he suggested. “Well, it didn’t amount to much. I am to have a few shares of stock and a bond or two; that is about all the ready assets.”

Elisha could hold in no longer. “But about the Eagle?” he blurted. “Didn’t you and the judge talk about the Eagle at all?”

“Oh, yes, but only in a general way. He thinks I ought to sell, if I can find a customer.”

“Customer! Why, didn’t he—?”

“Hush, Father! Remember.”

“I know, Nellie, but I supposed of course he’d—Oh, all right, all right.”

“He and I are to have another get-together to-morrow morning at his office,” put in Cobb. “Probably we shall talk more about the printing business and the paper then.... Miss Dodson,” he added, turning toward her, “just what sort of a man is this Dean?”

Elisha answered the question. “He’s one of the biggest men in Ostable County,” he declared. “Lawyer for the bank and for Cap’n Gideon and for ’most everybody that is anybody around here. And when it comes to runnin’ town politics, he—”

“Oh, yes, you told me that. He’s a big gun and knows he is; that’s plain enough. That isn’t just what I meant. Is he square? Can you trust him?”

It was Helen he was addressing.

“Cap’n Bates trusts him, I’m sure,” she said.

“No doubt, but I’m not Bates, you see. Suppose, for instance, there was a deal to be made with—oh, with Bates, for instance, on one side and a—somebody he didn’t know very well and wasn’t likely to profit much by on the other; would he play even and according to Hoyle, or would he be likely to have an ace or two in his sleeve?”

Helen hesitated. “Well,” she said slowly, “he has handled politicians for a long while.” She looked up suddenly. “In a case like the one you mention, Mr. Cobb, I think I should keep an eye on that sleeve.”

Elisha was horrified. “Why, Nellie!” he said. “What a way that is to talk!”

Franklin nodded. “I guessed as much,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”

He went to his room soon afterward. There were several copies of the Eagle on the table, and he looked them through with a new interest. The paper looked prosperous. It carried a pretty fair amount of advertising, and advertising, so he remembered having heard somewhere, was the really profitable end of the newspaper game. He wondered what the circulation might be. He must ask Elisha.

In spite of his lack of sleep the night before he was not sleepy now. He had a mind to go out somewhere, if there were anywhere to go. Then he remembered Mr. Eldredge’s suggestion concerning the “Grand Fourth of July Ball” at the town hall. He shaved, changed to a blue serge suit and went downstairs.

Elisha was alone in the sitting room. Helen, he explained, had departed for the dance at the town hall. Was Mr. Cobb cal’latin’ to go out? Well, ’twas a nice night for a walk.

The town hall was ablaze with lights when Franklin reached it. There was a crowd on the platform, mostly young fellows who, judging by their sunburned faces and hands, which contrasted acutely with the white of their collars and cuffs, were members of the fishing crews Dodson had mentioned. They were boisterous and loud of speech, but good-natured and peaceable enough. An elderly man, with a solemn and important manner and a metal star prominently displayed upon the breast of his coat, was strutting up and down among them. Cobb guessed him to be an officer of the law. He evidently took himself seriously, but the rest of the crowd treated him as a joke.

Franklin paid a dollar to another elderly man at the little window inside by the door, received a ticket in exchange, and mounted the broad flight of stairs to the ball room. The hall was crowded. The Bridgewater Silver Cornet Band, on the platform at the farther end, was earning its wages, and a quadrille was in progress.

He pushed through the lookers-on by the door and stood, looking over the assemblage. Mostly young people, the men in their best clothes, and perspiringly conscious of them, the women and girls in summer gowns, trained and tucked and hooped. A brisk little man, standing on the edge of the platform—he was the “prompter”—screamed orders for the dance.

“First four forward and back.”

“Lade-es change.”

“Grand right and left.”

“Tur-rn your partners.”

The skirts ballooned, chignons bobbed up and down, there was much shrill laughter and masculine whooping. They were having a good time, there was no doubt of that. In the set nearest the center of the floor Franklin saw Mr. Eldredge. Manasseh was grand in a “Clay-diagonal” cutaway coat, white waistcoat and striped trousers. When he “balanced corners” he performed a solitaire jig and made a hit with it, too.

“All promenade” shrieked the little man on the platform. The quadrille was over.

As the floor cleared and the couples moved to the seats along the walls Franklin heard his name. He turned. Helen Dodson was standing at his elbow and with her was the young giant who had intervened between the Portuguese and himself the morning of the day before.

“Why, it is Mr. Cobb,” exclaimed Helen. “I didn’t know you were coming here. Carmi, this is Franklin Cobb; he is at our house, you know.... Oh, but you and he have met, haven’t you? Of course you have.”

Captain Carmi Blake smiled and held out his hand. “How are you, Mr. Cobb?” he said. “Done any more fightin’ since yesterday?”

“No. I didn’t do much then. You saw to that.”

“You gave Manuel somethin’ to remember you by,” with a chuckle. “I met him this forenoon and his nose looked like a whole Fourth of July.”

“Was he any more peaceable?” asked Franklin.

“Seemed to be. And sober, for a wonder. Wanted to know if he came down to the wharf to-morrow mornin’ if I’d give him his job back. I told him I’d guarantee to give him somethin’ if he tried it.”

The prompter was shouting from the front of the platform. Blake turned to listen.

“Umph!” he grunted in disgust, “a polka. Too bad, Nellie. Here’s where I have to stay ashore. I can manage to navigate through a square dance, but I’m no good in these new round ones, even with as smart a pilot as you are. But you’re booked for the passage anyhow, aren’t you?”

Helen consulted her dance card. “Oh, dear, yes!” she groaned. “I promised this polka to Ben Cahoon. He’s a perfectly terrible dancer, but I had to give him one number. He works with Father on the Eagle, you know, Mr. Cobb.”

Franklin suddenly remembered. “You don’t mean ‘Tip,’ do you?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s what every one calls him.”

The music began. Evidently “round” dances were not popular in Wellmouth, for only a few couples were spinning in the polka. There was no sign of Tip. Helen’s foot was patting the floor in time to the catchy tune. Cobb was tempted.

“It doesn’t look as if he were coming,” he suggested. “Shall you and I try it, Miss Dodson?”

She glanced up at her escort.

“Why, yes indeed,” said Captain Blake, heartily. “If Tip heaves in sight I’ll smooth his fur. Go ahead, Nellie.”

Franklin was a good dancer, but he was surprised to find that his partner was equally good. She was as light as a feather in his arms and her timing was perfect. He had not expected to enjoy that polka greatly, there had been a trifle of condescension in his invitation, but when the music ceased he found himself clapping enthusiastically.

“That was bully,” he exclaimed. “You dance wonderfully, Miss Dodson.”

“Thank you. I like it very much,” she said, simply.

There was an encore and, when it was finished, he led her back to where Blake was waiting. A gorgeously arrayed youth, with a fiery red tie which matched his hair, was there also and received them with mingled apologies and reproaches.

“Judas priest!” exclaimed the red-haired one. “I never thought you’d give me the go-by this way, Nellie. I was a little mite late, got on new shoes and I have to haul out every little spell to take ’em off and give my feet room. I hurried much as ever I could, but when I got here Cap’n Carmi said you was hoofin’ it with another feller. How be you, Mr. Cobb? What do you think of this for a ball? Some high-toned time, ain’t it? Yes sir-ee! How about this next dance, Nellie? Lancers. The girls’ll tell you if there’s any dance I’m ’specially good at it’s lancers.”

Carmi Blake pushed him unceremoniously aside. “You run along and listen while they tell you, Tip,” he ordered. “Come, Nellie.”

She lingered a moment. “Thank you very much, Mr. Cobb,” she said. “I enjoyed the polka.”

She and Blake moved out on the floor. Tip Cahoon grinned. “Cap’n Carmi’s all right,” he commented, “but he don’t hanker to have anybody else swingin’ Nellie Dodson around. While you and she was polkain’ just now he had a face on him sour as a cranberry pie. Haw, haw, he never thought I noticed it, but I did. Well, you’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Cobb; I got a date.... Aw, Christmas, them plaguey shoes!”

He hobbled away. A few minutes later Franklin saw him prancing through the lancers like a jumping jack, his partner a plump girl whose pudgy face was lifted to his adoringly. Evidently Mr. Cahoon was a favorite with the ladies—some of them.

Cobb lingered for a while, strolled aimlessly among the onlookers, and then, finding himself bored, decided to go home. He would have liked another dance with Helen, but he had caught a glimpse of her card and it was full. There were far more “C.B.’s” than any other—Carmi Blake’s initials, of course.

As he moved toward the doorway at the head of the stairs there was a sudden stir before him. Manasseh Eldredge came hurrying.

“Stand back there, some of you folks, can’t you?” he demanded, testily. “Give ’em room.... Ah, good evenin’, Cap’n Gideon. Well, well, this is fine! Glad you could run in for a minute. Everybody’s havin’ a good time, I guess. Let me find you some seats over yonder.”

He spread his arms and opened a path for the newcomers. A portly, gray-haired, gray-bearded man; a plump matron, dignified, but smiling; a girl of eighteen or so, whose face was vaguely familiar; two young men—and then another girl whose face was familiar indeed. The girl at the window—the girl who had given him the information about the cannon.

He was in the front row, just beyond the spread of the important Mr. Eldredge’s arms; and he and this girl came face to face. She recognized him at once. Without an instant’s hesitation she crossed to where he stood.

“Why, what fun!” she cried, her hands extended and her eyes sparkling. “I’ve been wondering all day when I should see you again. Last night—this morning, I mean—at the window. Don’t you remember?”