As the old man and his guest entered the shanty a body of black children spread out in crescent-shape formation and observed Peter with awe. Fat old Mrs. Williams greeted him turbulently, while the eldest girl, Mollie, lurked in a corner and giggled with finished imbecility, gazing at the visitor with eyes that were shy and bold by turns. She seemed at times absurdly overconfident, at times foolishly afraid; but her giggle consistently endured. It was a giggle on which an irascible but right-minded judge would have ordered her forthwith to be buried alive.
Amid a great deal of hospitable gabbling, Peter was conducted to the best chair out of the three that the house contained. Enthroned therein, he made himself charming in talk to the old people, who beamed upon him joyously. As for Mollie, he affected to be unaware of her existence. This may have been a method for entrapping the sentimental interest of that young gazelle, or it may be that the giggle had worked upon him.
He was absolutely fascinating to the old people. They could talk like rotary snowplows, and he gave them every chance, while his face was illumined with appreciation. They pressed him to stay for supper, and he consented, after a glance at the pot on the stove which was too furtive to be noted.
During the meal old Alek recounted the high state of Judge Hagenthorpe’s kitchen garden, which Alek said was due to his unremitting industry and fine intelligence. Alek was a gardener, whenever impending starvation forced him to cease temporarily from being a lily of the field.
“Mist’ Bryant he suhtainly got er grand gawden,” observed Peter.
“Dat so, dat so, Mist’ Wash’ton,” assented Alek. “He got fine gawden.”
“Seems like I nev’ did see sech mellums, big as er bar’l, layin’ dere. I don’t raikon an’body in dish yer county kin hol’ it with Mist’ Bryant when comes ter mellums.”
“Dat so, Mist’ Wash’ton.”
They did not talk of watermelons until their heads held nothing else, as the phrase goes. But they talked of watermelons until, when Peter started for home that night over a lonely road, they held a certain dominant position in his mind. Alek had come with him as far as the fence, in order to protect him from a possible attack by the mongrels. There they had cheerfully parted, two honest men.
The night was dark, and heavy with moisture. Peter found it uncomfortable to walk rapidly. He merely loitered on the road. When opposite Si Bryant’s place he paused and looked over the fence into the garden. He imagined he could see the form of a huge melon lying in dim stateliness not ten yards away. He looked at the Bryant house. Two windows, downstairs, were lighted. The Bryants kept no dog, old Si’s favorite child having once been bitten by a dog, and having since died, within that year, of pneumonia.
Peering over the fence, Peter fancied that if any low-minded night prowler should happen to note the melon, he would not find it difficult to possess himself of it. This person would merely wait until the lights were out in the house, and the people presumably asleep. Then he would climb the fence, reach the melon in a few strides, sever the stem with his ready knife, and in a trice be back in the road with his prize. There need be no noise, and, after all, the house was some distance.
Selecting a smooth bit of turf, Peter took a seat by the roadside. From time to time he glanced at the lighted windows.
II
When Peter and Alek had said good-bye, the old man turned back in the rocky field and shaped a slow course toward that high dim light which marked the little window of his shanty. It would be incorrect to say that Alek could think of nothing but watermelons. But it was true that Si Bryant’s watermelon patch occupied a certain conspicuous position in his thoughts.
He sighed; he almost wished that he was again a conscienceless pickaninny, instead of being one of the most ornate, solemn, and look-at-me-sinner deacons that ever graced the handle of a collection basket. At this time it made him quite sad to reflect upon his granite integrity. A weaker man might perhaps bow his moral head to the temptation, but for him such a fall was impossible. He was a prince of the church, and if he had been nine princes of the church he could not have been more proud. In fact, religion was to the old man a sort of personal dignity. And he was on Sundays so obtrusively good that you could see his sanctity through a door. He forced it on you until you would have felt its influence even in a forecastle.
It was clear in his mind that he must put watermelon thoughts from him, and after a moment he told himself, with much ostentation, that he had done so. But it was cooler under the sky than in the shanty, and as he was not sleepy, he decided to take a stroll down to Si Bryant’s place and look at the melons from a pinnacle of spotless innocence. Reaching the road, he paused to listen. It would not do to let Peter hear him, because that graceless rapscallion would probably misunderstand him. But, assuring himself that Peter was well on his way, he set out, walking briskly until he was within four hundred yards of Bryant’s place. Here he went to the side of the road, and walked thereafter on the damp, yielding turf. He made no sound.
He did not go on to that point in the main road which was directly opposite the watermelon patch. He did not wish to have his ascetic contemplation disturbed by some chance wayfarer. He turned off along a short lane which led to Si Bryant’s barn. Here he reached a place where he could see, over the fence, the faint shapes of the melons.
Alek was affected. The house was some distance away, there was no dog, and doubtless the Bryants would soon extinguish their lights and go to bed. Then some poor lost lamb of sin might come and scale the fence, reach a melon in a moment, sever the stem with his ready knife, and in a trice be back in the road with his prize. And this poor lost lamb of sin might even be a bishop, but no one would ever know it. Alek singled out with his eye a very large melon, and thought that the lamb would prove his judgment if he took that one.
He found a soft place in the grass, and arranged himself comfortably. He watched the lights in the windows.
III
It seemed to Peter Washington that the Bryants absolutely consulted their own wishes in regard to the time for retiring; but at last he saw the lighted windows fade briskly from left to right, and after a moment a window on the second floor blazed out against the darkness. Si was going to bed. In five minutes this window abruptly vanished, and all the world was night.
Peter spent the ensuing quarter-hour in no mental debate. His mind was fixed. He was here, and the melon was there. He would have it. But an idea of being caught appalled him. He thought of his position. He was the beau of his community, honored right and left. He pictured the consternation of his friends and the cheers of his enemies if the hands of the redoubtable Si Bryant should grip him in his shame.
He arose and, going to the fence, listened. No sound broke the stillness, save the rhythmical incessant clicking of myriad insects and the guttural chanting of the frogs in the reeds at the lakeside. Moved by sudden decision, he climbed the fence and crept silently and swiftly down upon the melon. His open knife was in his hand. There was the melon, cool, fair to see, as pompous in its fatness as the cook in a monastery.
Peter put out a hand to steady it while he cut the stem. But at the instant he was aware that a black form had dropped over the fence lining the lane in front of him and was coming stealthily toward him. In a palsy of terror he dropped flat upon the ground, not having strength enough to run away. The next moment he was looking into the amazed and agonized face of old Alek Williams.
There was a moment of loaded silence, and then Peter was overcome by a mad inspiration. He suddenly dropped his knife and leaped upon Alek. “I got che!” he hissed. “I got che! I got che!” The old man sank down as limp as rags. “I got che! I got che! Steal Mist’ Bryant’s mellums, hey?”
Alek, in a low voice, began to beg. “Oh, Mist’ Peter Wash’ton, don’ go fer ter be too ha’d on er ole man! I nev’ come yere fer ter steal ’em. ’Deed I didn’t, Mist’ Wash’ton! I come yere jes fer ter feel ’em. Oh, please, Mist’ Wash’ton—”
“Come erlong outa yere, you
ol’ rip,” said Peter, “an’ don’ trumple on dese yer baids. I gwine put you w’ah you won’ ketch col’.”
Without difficulty he tumbled the whining Alek over the fence to the roadway and followed him with sheriff-like expedition. He took him by the scruff. “Come erlong, deacon. I raikon I gwine put you w’ah you kin pray, deacon. Come erlong, deacon.”
The emphasis and reiteration of his layman’s title in the church produced a deadly effect upon Alek. He felt to his marrow the heinous crime into which this treacherous night had betrayed him. As Peter marched his prisoner up the road toward the mouth of the lane, he continued his remarks: “Come erlong, deacon. Nev’ see er man so anxious-like erbout er mellum-paitch, deacon. Seem like you jes’ must see ’em er-growin’ an’ feel ’em, deacon. Mist’ Bryant he’ll be s’prised, deacon, findin’ out you come fer ter feel his mellums. Come erlong, deacon. Mist’ Bryant he expectin’ some ole rip like you come soon.”
They had almost reached the lane when Alek’s cur Susie, who had followed her master, approached in the silence which attends dangerous dogs; and seeing indications of what she took to be war, she appended herself swiftly but firmly to the calf of Peter’s left leg. The mêlée was short, but spirited. Alek had no wish to have his dog complicate his already serious misfortunes, and went manfully to the defense of his captor. He procured a large stone, and by beating this with both hands down upon the resounding skull of the animal, he induced her to quit her grip. Breathing heavily, Peter dropped into the long grass at the roadside. He said nothing.
“Mist’ Wash’ton,” said Alek at last, in a quavering voice, “I raikon I gwine wait yere see what you gwine do ter me.”
Whereupon Peter passed into a spasmodic state, in which he rolled to and fro and shook.
“Mist’ Wash’ton, I hope dish yer dog ’ain’t gone an’ give you fitses?”
Peter sat up suddenly. “No, she ’ain’t,” he answered; “but she gin me er big skeer; an’ fer yer ’sistance with er cobblestone, Mist’ Willums, I tell you what I gwine do—I tell you what I gwine do.” He waited an impressive moment. “I gwine ’lease you!”
Old Alek trembled like a little bush in a wind. “Mist’ Wash’ton?”
Quoth Peter, deliberately, “I gwine ’lease you.”
The old man was filled with a desire to negotiate this statement at once, but he felt the necessity of carrying off the event without an appearance of haste. “Yes, seh; thank’e, seh; thank’e, Mist’ Wash’ton. I raikon I ramble home pressenly.” He waited an interval, and then dubiously said, “Good-evenin’, Mist’ Wash’ton.”
“Good-evenin’, deacon. Don’ come foolin’ roun’ feelin’ no mellums, and I say troof. Good-evenin’, deacon.”
Alek took off his hat and made three profound bows. “Thank ’e seh. Thank ’e, seh. Thank ’e, seh.”
Peter underwent another severe spasm, but the old man walked off toward his home with a humble and contrite heart.
IV
The next morning Alek proceeded from his shanty under the complete but customary illusion that he was going to work. He trudged manfully along until he reached the vicinity of Si Bryant’s place. Then, by stages, he relapsed into a slink. He was passing the garden patch under full steam when, at some distance ahead of him, he saw Si Bryant leaning casually on the garden fence.
“Good-mornin’, Alek.”
“Good-mawnin’, Mist’ Bryant,” answered Alek, with a new deference. He was marching on, when he was halted by a word—“Alek!”
He stopped. “Yes, seh.”
“I found a knife this mornin’ in th’ road,” drawled Si, “an’ I thought maybe it was yourn.”
Improved in mind by this divergence from the direct line of attack, Alek stepped up easily to look at the knife. “No, seh,” he said, scanning it as it lay in Si’s palm, while the cold steel-blue eyes of the white man looked down into his stomach, “ ’tain’t no knife er mine.” But he knew the knife. He knew it as if it had been his mother. And at the same moment a spark flashed through his head and made wise his understanding. He knew everything. “ ’Tain’t much of er knife, Mist’ Bryant,” he said, deprecatingly.
“ ’Tain’t much of a knife, I know that,” cried Si, in sudden heat, “but I found it this mornin’ in my watermelon patch—hear?”
“Watahmellum paitch?” yelled Alek, not astounded.
“Yes, in my watermelon patch,” sneered Si, “an’ I think you know something about it, too!”
“Me?” cried Alek. “Me?”
“Yes—you!” said Si, with icy ferocity. “Yes—you!” He had become convinced that Alek was not in any way guilty, but he was certain that the old man knew the owner of the knife, and so he pressed him at first on criminal lines. “Alek, you might as well own up now. You’ve been meddlin’ with my watermelons!”
“Me?” cried Alek again. “Yah’s ma knife. I done cah’e it foh yeahs.”
Bryant changed his ways. “Look here, Alek,” he said, confidentially: “I know you and you know me, and there ain’t no use in any more skirmishin’. I know that you know whose knife that is. Now whose is it?”
This challenge was so formidable in character that Alek temporarily quailed and began to stammer. “Er—now—Mist’ Bryant—you—you—frien’ er mine—”
“I know I’m a friend of yours, but,” said Bryant, inexorably, “who owns this knife?”
Alek gathered unto himself some remnants of dignity and spoke with reproach: “Mist’ Bryant, dish yer knife ain’ mine.”
“No,” said Bryant, “it ain’t. But you know who it belongs to, an’ I want you to tell me—quick.”
“Well, Mist’ Bryant,” answered Alek, scratching his wool, “I won’t say’s I do know who b’longs ter dish yer knife, an’ I won’t say’s I don’t.”
Bryant again laughed his Yankee laugh, but this time there was little humor in it. It was dangerous.
Alek, seeing that he had got himself into hot water by the fine diplomacy of his last sentence, immediately began to flounder and totally submerge himself. “No, Mist’ Bryant,” he repeated, “I won’t say’s I do know who b’longs ter dish yer knife, an’ I won’t say’s I don’t.” And he began to parrot this fatal sentence again and again. It seemed wound about his tongue. He could not rid himself of it. Its very power to make trouble for him seemed to originate the mysterious Afric reason for its repetition.
“Is he a very close friend of yourn?” said Bryant, softly.
“F-frien’?” stuttered Alek. He appeared to weigh this question with much care. “Well, seems like he was er frien’, an’ then agin, it seems like he—”
“It seems like he wasn’t?” asked Bryant.
“Yes, seh, jest so, jest so,” cried Alek. “Sometimes it seems like he wasn’t. Then agin—” He stopped for profound meditation.
The patience of the white man seemed inexhaustible. At length his low and oily voice broke the stillness. “Oh, well, of course if he’s a friend of yourn Alek! You know I wouldn’t want to make no trouble for a friend of yourn.”
“Yes, seh,” cried the negro at once. “He’s er frien’ er mine. He is dat.”
“Well, then, it seems as if about the only thing to do is for you to tell me his name so’s I can send him his knife, and that’s all there is to it.”
Alek took off his hat, and in perplexity ran his hand over his wool. He studied the ground. But several times he raised his eyes to take a sly peep at the imperturbable visage of the white man. “Y-y-yes, Mist’ Bryant.—I raikon dat’s erbout all what kin be done. I gwine tell you who b’longs ter dish yer knife.”
“Of course,” said the smooth Bryant, “it ain’t a very nice thing to have to do, but—”
“No, seh,” cried Alek, brightly; “I’m gwine tell you, Mist’ Bryant. I gwine tell you erbout dat knife. Mist’ Bryant,” he asked, solemnly, “does you know who b’longs ter dat knife?”
“No, I—”
“Well, I gwine tell. I gwine tell who. Mist’
Bryant—” The old man drew himself to a stately pose and held forth his arm. “I gwine tell who. Mist’ Bryant, dish yer knife b’longs ter Sam Jackson!”
Bryant was startled into indignation. “Who in hell is Sam Jackson?” he growled.
“He’s er nigger,” said Alek, impressively, “and he wuks in er lumber-yawd up yere in Hoswego.”
March, 1900
[Harper’s Magazine, Vol. 100, pp. 591–598.]
* Whilomville Stories.
THE STOVE*
I
“They’ll bring her,” said Mrs. Trescott, dubiously. Her cousin, the painter, the bewildered father of the angel child, had written to say that if they were asked, he and his wife would come to the Trescotts’ for the Christmas holidays. But he had not officially stated that the angel child would form part of the expedition. “But of course they’ll bring her,” said Mrs. Trescott to her husband.
The doctor assented. “Yes, they’ll have to bring her. They wouldn’t dare leave New York at her mercy.”
“Well,” sighed Mrs. Trescott, after a pause, “the neighbors will be pleased. When they see her they’ll immediately lock up their children for safety.”
“Anyhow,” said Trescott, “the devastation of the Margate twins was complete. She can’t do that particular thing again. I shall be interested to note what form her energy will take this time.”
“Oh yes! that’s it!” cried the wife. “You’ll be interested. You’ve hit it exactly. You’ll be interested to note what form her energy will take this time. And then, when the real crisis comes, you’ll put on your hat and walk out of the house and leave me to straighten things out. This is not a scientific question; this is a practical matter.”
“Well, as a practical man, I advocate chaining her out in the stable,” answered the doctor.