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S TRANGERS, did I say? Let me correct that statement Father was not a stranger in Dashville, otherwise he would not have hazarded the plan of sending the fillies home while he and I remained with the disabled wagon. He was intimately acquainted with all the older inhabitants of the county seat and was on friendly terms with the two lawyers and the doctor and all the county officers. There was not the slightest danger, therefore, that when once our plight became known we should be permitted to spend the night in the way which he had proposed. But he was proud, and so independent of spirit that, rather than ask his dearest friend for shelter and lodging, he would willingly have slept in the open field with naught but the stars above him.
"I think there is a blacksmith's shop just at the edge of the town. We will see what we can do there," he said.
Weary and footsore, I followed him along the pathway that skirted the muddy highroad. We met a number of farm wagons full of plain country people who were on their way homeward, and we rightly concluded that the circus had "let out," and that the Great Moral Exhibition was adjourned until "early candle-light" in the evening. In the direction of the big tent we could hear a drum beating and the occasional tooting of a horn, admonishing the people not to disperse until they had paid another fip to see that wonder of wonders, the Fat Woman of Kankakee. I listened to these sounds with a feeling of disgust and weariness, and as I looked at the fast declining sun I would have given all my marbles could I have been safe at home on the warm hearth with Robinson Crusoe in my hand and dear Inviz cuddling down beside me.
The blacksmith was a newcomer in Dashville, but he had heard of father—as who in the world had not?—and was very eager to befriend him. He made no pretense of being a worker in wood, but to his skill in all sorts of iron craft there was no limit, and in the noble art of horseshoeing he held the championship of all the Wabash Country. His big, round, smutty face melted with pity when he learned of our woeful accident, and soon a satisfactory arrangement was made with reference to the disabled wagon. The smith would furnish a piece of timber suitable for a new axletree, he would permit father to use his tools while shaping it into the desired form, and he would put on the necessary irons and attach the new part to the wagon—all for the modest sum of twenty-five cents.
"I wouldn't do it for nobody else," he said in his bluff hearty way; "but, seein' that it's you, I'm only too glad to obleege you; and I hope that you'll remember that I'm runnin' for constable at the next 'lection."
At this father could hardly hold his temper in check.
"What does thee take me for? If thee thinks I'll vote for a man because he works for me at half-price, thee's mightily mistaken." He spoke up sharply and with becoming indignation, and yet he betrayed no feeling of anger.
The man was profuse in his apologies. He was not thinking of the vote; he was thinking of the pleasure he would derive from serving a man so universally esteemed as Stephen Dudley; he was sorry, indeed, if he had been misunderstood.
"Let us lay all that aside," said father, "and consider this a purely business transaction. What thee offers to do for me is worth fully half a dollar. If I were situated as thee is, I would do it for that price, no more, no less. Now, if thee is willing to take fifty cents, and consider that I may vote against thee at the election, we will call it a bargain."
"Oh, certainly, certainly, Mr. Dudley," stammered the smith, "and we'll go now and fetch the wagon right up to the shop."
And so, with much hard labor on account of one wheel being useless, the wagon with its disabled axletree was dragged up to the shop and safely deposited on the broad earthen floor-space in front of the forge. "It will be handy there," said the smith, "and when you come to your work in the morning, you will find all my tools right here before you where you may help yourself."
"But how would it be," said father, "if I and this little fellow should choose to sleep here in the wagon all night?"
"I hain't no objections, at all," was the answer; "but I hope you will find a much better place than that. I would take you to my house, but we hain't got only one bed, and my wife she's right smart ailin' and not able to wait on company."
"Thee is very kind," said father, "but we shall fare quite well on the straw. And now we will take a little walk down to the store and get us a bite of something to eat."
By this time the sun had gone down and darkness was at hand. There were but few persons on the street; for the country people had returned to their homes and most of the townfolks were in attendance upon the evening session of the show. As we walked slowly along in the middle of the road, I observed with curious attention the houses on each side of the way. The light was so dim that I could discern but little more than their outlines, and yet I could see that they were of various sizes and shapes and that the smallest among them seemed larger than our big-house at home. In a few of the dwellings, the people had already lighted their candles, and these shining through the windows helped to give me a somewhat distinct idea of their roominess and general appearance.
Presently we passed a large square building with two rows of windows in front—one row above the other. Its massiveness impressed me greatly, and I was struck with its resemblance to the pictures of certain palaces, that adorned the pages of my Parley Book. I immediately fancied myself in London, in Rome, in St. Petersburg, and I paused for a few moments to gaze and wonder! There were candles lighted inside, and I could see that there were shutters in front of some of the windows—yes, shutters which appeared to be composed of slender iron bars just far enough apart to permit the feeble rays of the candles to struggle through between them. A strange creepy feeling came over me, for I remembered all that I had ever read concerning fortresses and prisons and common jails, and I fancied that this was one of those terrible buildings. I ran, panting, to overtake father who was now some distance in advance.
"Father," I cried, "didn't David say there was a jail here in Dashville?"
"Yes," he answered, deeply absorbed in thought. "He did say something about it."
"Well, does thee know that the jail house is right back there where all them bars are across the windows?"
He made no reply; for just then a young man with a cane in his hand and a very sleek hat on his head came tripping across the street to accost him.
"Why, Stephen Dudley, is this thee? And is this thy little son? Well, I'm pleased to see thee both! And how is all of thee in the New Settlement?"
"I'm glad to say that we are all tolerable," said father dryly. "How's thee and thine?"
"Quite well, I thank thee," answered the stranger, and he shook hands warmly with both of us. "I suppose thee have both been taking in the great show today? Am I right?"
"I can't say as to that; but in truth, the great show has taken us in," returned father. "However, experience is the best teacher."
"Thee art right, Stephen. But I'm so glad to see thee.
Of course thee'll be in town
Then he again shook hands with us in a manner so cordial that I began to think him the best friend we should ever have in this world or the world to come. "Farewell, Stephen! Farewell, my little man!"
He turned and started briskly on his way; but at the distance of a dozen yards he paused and looked back. Then he returned and shook hands with father for the third time. "Stephen," he said, in words that were double-greased, "Stephen, thee wilt remember that I'm a candidate for county clerk on the Whig ticket. I hope thee wilt use thy influence—"
"Oh, yes! don't thee be uneasy," interrupted father. "I'll use my influence when the time comes. Farewell!"
We walked onward while our friend again darted off toward the court-house and was soon lost to sight in the darkening twilight.
"Father, who was that good man?" I asked.
"His name is Thomas Marcellus Cottingham," was the answer. "He is a politician, and he thinks he will win the votes of Friends by trying to use the plain language and slobbering all over our clothes. He's mightily mistaken."
"But thee said thee would vote for him."
"Oh, no! I said I would use my influence, meaning I would use it against him. When I meet a man who looks upon me as an idiot, I think it no harm for me to look upon him as a fool."
It was quite dark when we reached the store. We went in quietly. The interior was lighted by four tallow candles, two on the front counter and two at the rear, while the rays from a tin lantern glimmered feebly above a small desk near the center of the room. This, to my mind, was a very lavish display of light, for at home we had always considered one candle sufficient to illuminate the largest room. I had never before been inside of any sort of store, and as I looked around at the varied assortment of merchandise my mind was filled with astonishment. Here was every kind of goods that you could think of, including some articles of whose names and uses I had no knowledge. Here were "store goods" of all colors and qualities, ginghams and calicoes and "flannens"; boots and shoes; log chains and iron wedges; coffee and salt; hats and caps and ribbons; candy and store tea; rakes, hoes and grindstones. I was amazed to observe so many useful and necessary things all collected together in one room.
The storekeeper was busy waiting upon a customer at the farther counter, and we waited near the door until he should be at leisure. In a few minutes, however, the customer took his departure and father went forward and quietly asked for a half-pound of crackers and a fip's worth of cheese. Scarcely had he uttered the words when a portly white-haired man who had all this time been seated at the desk, suddenly rose and rushed forward with outstretched hand, exclaiming:
"Why! Stephen Dudley, how pleased I am to see you! How do you do? I would know that voice of yours among a thousand, but in the dim light of these candles, I failed to recognize your face. How are you, anyhow? I tell you I am surprised to see you."
"Well, well, Isaac Wilson!" returned father, his face beaming with delight. "I'm glad to meet thee. I heard that thee had started a store in Dashville; but I saw another name over the door and so concluded that thy place must be in some other part of the town."
"Oh, no, this is the only store," answered Isaac. "The name is that of my son-in-law, who is really the owner of the place, for he has a controlling interest in it." Then, turning to the man behind the counter, he said, "Henry, let me introduce my old friend, Stephen Dudley, whom I knew as a boy in the old North state. Stephen, this is my son-in-law, Henry Meredith, late from Philadelphia and at present the leading merchant in Dashville." And with this the dear old gentleman burst into a clear ringing laugh that was a thousand times more musical than the blare of the brass band which I heard at that same moment harshly echoing across the fields.
"I am very glad, indeed, to meet you, Mr. Dudley," said the storekeeper, reaching over the counter to shake hands. "I have heard your name mentioned very often."
I liked his voice, it was so kind and clear; but I resented his calling father a "mister."
"Now, tell me, Stephen," said the elder of the two merchants, "why do you come in here to buy a fip's worth of cheese and a half-pound of crackers?"
Father very briefly and modestly related the story of the mishap that had befallen us, and explained that we had taken lodgings in the blacksmith's shop and expected to board ourselves there until Sixth-day morning "without being beholden to anybody."
"Well, now," said jolly Isaac Wilson, "you'll not lodge in any blacksmith's shop while I am in the same town with you; and as for cheese and crackers, we don't sell 'em by the fip's worth to such as you. You'll go home with me this minute, and you'll be our guests as long as you stay in Dashville. We all live together—Henry's family and mine—and you're welcome to the best we have. Come! don't say a word."
And with that the dear old white-haired gentleman
picked up the lighted tin lantern and seized hold of
father's arm. "Come!" he repeated. "I won't listen
to any excuses. Cheese and crackers, indeed!" Then
seeing me shrinking timidly in the shadows, he took my
arm also. "Come, my brave laddie," he said. "I guess
you're pretty well tuckered out, but you'll feel better
after a while. A warm supper and a soft bed—and you
won't know yourself
He led us out of the door and down the street in the direction from whence we had so lately come; and he kept up such a stream of talk and laughter that father could scarcely find the space in which to wedge a single small word. But the two men seemed very happy in each other's company, and I was so deeply interested in listening that I wholly forgot my weary limbs and my empty stomach.
And who was this Isaac Wilson? I had heard his name often, but had never seen him before. David had spoken of meeting him during his recent visit to Dashville, and I remembered that others had mentioned him in a half-hearted way as a backslider and a worldly man who had lost his birthright in Our Society. But father had never pronounced his name without paying some sort of tribute to his sterling character; and I had gathered in various ways the idea that Stephen Dudley and Isaac Wilson had been the best of chums in their boyhood days, long ago in the mystical country of old Carliny.
But how was this? My heart fluttered and I had a queer sensation of doubt as our guide turned suddenly and led us up the narrow walk to the strong-built house with the barred windows. Was he really taking us into the jail? Well, we were having an adventure, and I resolved that, come what would, I would make the best of it and be very brave.
Isaac Wilson was in a jolly mood. He had just finished the telling of a merry story which seemed very amusing to both him and father, and laughing loudly he opened the front door of the supposed jail and pushed us in. I observed that there was a lock on the door, and this increased my suspicions—for of what earthly use could a lock be on a door where honest people lived? But father did not appear to notice anything unusual, and therefore I soon forgot my fears.
The room into which we were ushered was very large; and by the light of the single candle that was burning on a square candlestand in the corner, I could see that it contained many wonderful things. Strangest of all, the floor was covered with what I at first thought was a beautiful cloth in which were woven pretty flowers and vines of many shapes and colors. It was impossible to go anywhere in the room without stepping upon it, and it felt wonderfully soft and soothing to my poor chilled feet. When I sat down upon the fine cushioned chair which Isaac Wilson offered me, I lifted my toes very high lest they might soil the delicate flowers or otherwise injure the beautiful fabric.
"Now, just wait a few moments and we'll see if we can't offer you a substitute for that fip's worth of cheese," said our host.
He left us, sitting very awkwardly in our places, and went out into another room. I could hear him giving directions to some one, and presently the rattling of dishes intimated quite plainly that some one was setting a table. We waited in silence for what seemed a very long time. Father appeared to be absorbed in the contemplation of a picture on the wall, and I was afraid to move the least bit lest I should break something or soil the carpet or commit some other unpardonable folly. Finally, the door at the back of the room was opened, revealing another apartment scarcely less beautiful than the first. In the center of it was a table on which was an abundance of food, smoking hot, and an array of chany dishes that would have set the heart of Cousin Sally wild with admiration.
"Now, my good friends," announced our host, "please walk into the dining-room and have a bit of supper. The ladies, I am sorry to say, have already eaten and gone to the circus, but the cook has saved something for us—perhaps as much as three hungry fellows will care for, with a little left over for the storekeeper."
Ah! what a supper that was! Never since the memorable dinner at Aunt Nancy's after I had been lost in the woods, had I sat down to a more bountiful meal. True, there were not so many kinds of preserves, and there was neither fried chicken nor pie. Neither did the little red-haired woman with the white apron—whom I rightly guessed to be the cook—press the good victuals upon me as Cousin Sally would have done. Nevertheless, the meal was one which I enjoyed and shall never forget. I ate until I grew sleepy, and the fork dropped from my nerveless hand.
"My poor little laddie, you are tired," said Isaac Wilson; "you are worn out by the unusual excitement of this great day in your life. Come with me, and I will show you to your bed—for I guess you need that worse than anything else."
He took a candle from the table and motioned to me to follow him. He led me first into a very long and narrow room which seemed to have no other use than to contain a long ladder—no, not a ladder, but a series of steps, "stairs" I soon learned to call them—which ran right up to the loft above. These stairs—the first I had ever seen—were wonderful. Each step was so broad that I could stand erect with both my bare feet upon it; and had I been so minded, I could have run to the very top without reaching out my hands to hold to anything.
And the loft—how different it was from our cabin loft at home! First, we passed into another long and very narrow room, with several doors on each side of it. Through one of these doors I was finally shown into a small beautiful chamber in which there was a bed.
"Now, my brave laddie," said Isaac Wilson, "do you see this bed? I want you to undress and get into it as quickly as you can; and don't you dare to get out of it till the sun shines on you in the morning. You needn't blow the candle out, for your father will come up in a little while and sleep with you."
He set the candle down on a little bureau which had a looking-glass above it, he looked into a pitcher of water that was on a square stand in the corner, and he drew a light curtain down across the window, probably to make the room look cozier.
"Good night, laddie," he said, going out and closing the door behind him.
"Yes, it's a pretty good night," I muttered timidly; but he did not hear me.
I looked at the bed. How white and restful it looked. It was not so tall as the beds that Cousin Mandy Jane made up at home—but I felt that it was much better adapted to the needs of a sleepy person like me. I undressed quickly, as was my habit; and then my eyes beheld my mud-bespattered feet and legs. Ah! how could I ever look Isaac Wilson in the face again if I laid such untidy, unwashed members as these between the white, white sheets that were beckoning to me? I would a thousand times rather sleep on the bare floor than do such a thing.
The problem was soon solved. The pitcher of water was brought into requisition; and there was a towel hanging up beside it, which was no doubt provided for just such an emergency. Then Inviz, my dear old unseen playmate, suddenly popped into the room and whispered:
"That's right, Robert. Isaac Wilson put that pitcher of water there on purpose for thee to wash thy feet in it."
Soon, with a clear conscience and clean legs, I leaped into bed and drew the immaculate bedcovers over me. And Inviz, creeping softly in beside me, laid his cheek against my own as was his old-time custom; and another memorable day was ended.