Part 32 (1/2)

”No,” said David with a chuckle. ”All the men set up a great laugh, an'

she colored up in a kind of huff at fust, an' then she begun to laugh too, an' then one o' the waiter fellers put somethin' down in front of me an' I went eatin' agin. But putty soon Price, he says, 'Come,' he says, 'Harum, ain't you goin' on? How about that powder?'

”'Wa'al,' I says, 'mebbe we had ought to put that critter out of his misery. The elder went down an' bought a pound o' powder an' had it done up in a brown paper bundle, an' put it with his other stuff in the bottom of his dem'crat wagin; but it come on to rain some while he was ridin' back, an' the stuff got more or less wet, an' so when he got home he spread it out in a dishpan an' put it under the kitchen stove to dry, an' thinkin' that it wa'n't dryin' fast enough, I s'pose, made out to a.s.sist Nature, as the sayin' is, by stirrin' on't up with the kitchin poker. Wa'al,' I says, 'I don't jest know how it happened, an' the elder cert'inly didn't, fer after they'd got him untangled f'm under what was left of the woodshed an' the kitchin stove, an' tied him up in cotton battin', an' set his leg, an' put out the house, an' a few things like that, bom-by he come round a little, an' the fust thing he says was, ”Wa'al, wa'al, wa'al!” ”What is it, pa?” says Mis' Maybee, bendin' down over him. ”That peowder,” he says, in almost no voice, ”that peowder! I was jest stirrin' on't a little, an' it went _o-f-f_, it went _o-f-f_,”

he says, ”_seemin'ly--in--a--minute_!” an' that,' I says to Mis' Price, 'was what that egg done.'

”'We'll have to forgive you that egg,' she says, laughin' like ev'rything, 'for Elder Maybee's sake'; an' in fact,” said David, ”they all laughed except one feller. He was an Englishman--I fergit his name.

When I got through he looked kind o' puzzled an' says” (Mr. Harum imitated his style as well as he could), ”'But ra'ally, Mr. Harum, you kneow that's the way powdah always geoes off, don't you kneow,' an'

then,” said David, ”they laughed harder 'n ever, an' the Englishman got redder 'n a beet.”

”What did you say?” asked John.

”Nuthin',” said David. ”They was all laughin' so't I couldn't git in a word, an' then the waiter brought me another plateful of somethin'. Scat my ----!” he exclaimed, ”I thought that dinner 'd go on till kingdom come. An' wine! Wa'al! I begun to feel somethin' like the old feller did that swallered a full tumbler of white whisky, thinkin' it was water.

The old feller was temp'rence, an' the boys put up a job on him one hot day at gen'ral trainin'. Somebody ast him afterwuds how it made him feel, an' he said he felt as if he was sittin' straddle the meetin'

house, an' ev'ry s.h.i.+ngle was a Jew's-harp. So I kep' mum fer a while.

But jest before we fin'ly got through, an' I hadn't said nothin' fer a spell, Mis' Price turned to me an' says, 'Did you have a pleasant drive this afternoon?'

”'Yes'm,' I says, 'I seen the hull show, putty much. I guess poor folks must be 't a premium 'round here. I reckon,' I says, 'that if they'd club together, the folks your husband p'inted out to me to-day could _almost_ satisfy the requirements of the 'Merican Soci'ty fer For'n Missions.' Mis' Price laughed, an' looked over at her husband. 'Yes,'

says Price, 'I told Mr. Harum about some of the people we saw this afternoon, an' I must say he didn't appear to be as much impressed as I thought he would. How's that, Harum?' he says to me.

”'Wa'al,' says I, 'I was thinkin' 't I'd like to bet you two dollars to a last year's bird's nest,' I says, 'that if all them fellers we seen this afternoon, that air over fifty, c'd be got together, an' some one was suddinly to holler ”LOW BRIDGE!” that nineteen out o' twenty 'd _duck their heads_.'”

”And then?” queried John.

”Wa'al,” said David, ”all on 'em laughed some, but Price--he jest lay back an' roared, and I found out afterwuds,” added David, ”that ev'ry man at the table, except the Englis'man, know'd what 'low bridge' meant from actial experience. Wa'al, scat my ----!” he exclaimed, as he looked at his watch, ”it ain't hardly wuth while undressin',” and started for the door. As he was halfway through it, he turned and said, ”Say, I s'pose _you'd_ 'a' known what to do with that egg,” but he did not wait for a reply.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

It must not be understood that the Harums, Larrabees, Robinsons, Elrights, and sundry who have thus far been mentioned, represented the only types in the prosperous and enterprising village of Homeville, and David perhaps somewhat magnified the one-time importance of the Cullom family, although he was speaking of a period some forty years earlier.

Be that as it may, there were now a good many families, most of them descendants of early settlers, who lived in good and even fine houses, and were people of refinement and considerable wealth. These const.i.tuted a coterie of their own, though they were on terms of acquaintance and comity with the ”village people,” as they designated the rank and file of the Homeville population. To these houses came in the summer sons and daughters, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren, and at the period of which I am writing there had been built on the sh.o.r.e of the lake, or in its vicinity, a number of handsome and stately residences by people who had been attracted by the beauty of the situation and the salubrity of the summer climate. And so, for some months in the pleasant season, the village was enlivened by a concourse of visitors who brought with them urban customs, costumes, and equipages, and gave a good deal of life and color to the village streets. Then did Homeville put its best foot forward and money in its pouch.

”I ain't what ye might call an old residenter,” said David, ”though I was part raised on Buxton Hill, an' I ain't so well 'quainted with the nabobs; but Polly's lived in the village ever sence she got married, an'

knows their fam'ly hist'ry, dam, an' sire, an' pedigree gen'ally. Of course,” he remarked, ”I know all the men folks, an' they know me, but I never ben into none o' their houses except now an' then on a matter of bus'nis, an' I guess,” he said with a laugh, ”that Polly 'd allow 't she don't spend all her time in that circle. Still,” he added, ”they all know her, an' ev'ry little while some o' the women folks 'll come in an'

see her. She's putty popular, Polly is,” he concluded.

”I should think so, indeed,” remarked John.

”Yes, sir,” said David, ”the's worse folks 'n Polly Bixbee, if she don't put on no style; an' the fact is, that some of the folks that lives here the year 'round, an' always have, an' call the rest on us 'village people,' 'r' jest as countryfied in their way 's me an' Polly is in our'n--only they don't know it. 'Bout the only diff'rence is the way they talk an' live.” John looked at Mr. Harum in some doubt as to the seriousness of the last remark.

”Go to the 'Piscopal church, an' have what they call dinner at six o'clock,” said David. ”Now, there's the The'dore Verjooses,” he continued; ”the 'rig'nal Verjoos come an' settled here some time in the thirties, I reckon. He was some kind of a Dutchman, I guess”

[”Dutchman” was Mr. Harum's generic name for all people native to the Continent of Europe]; ”but he had some money, an' bought land an'

morgidges, an' so on, an' havin' money--money was awful scurce in them early days--made more; never spent anythin' to speak of, an' died pinchin' the 'rig'nal cent he started in with.”

”He was the father of Mr. Verjoos the other banker here, I suppose?”

said John.