Part 72 (1/2)
Charlie Phillips, too, was in France with his regiment.
”I presume likely you've heard the news from Leander Babbitt, Jed?”
asked Captain Sam.
”About his bein' wounded? Yes, Gab flapped in at the shop this afternoon to caw over it. Said the telegram had just come to Phineas. I was hopin' 'twasn't so, but Eri Hedge said he heard it, too. . . . Serious, is it, Sam?”
”They don't say, but I shouldn't wonder. The boy was. .h.i.t by a sh.e.l.l splinter while doin' his duty with exceptional bravery, so the telegram said. 'Twas from Was.h.i.+n'ton, of course. And there was somethin' in it about his bein' recommended for one of those war crosses.”
Jed sat up straight on the bench. ”You don't mean it!” he cried.
”Well, well, well! Ain't that splendid! I knew he'd do it, too.
'Twas in him. Sam,” he added, solemnly, ”did I tell you I got a letter from him last week?”
”From Leander?”
”Yes. . . . And before I got it he must have been wounded. . . .
Yes, sir, before I got his letter. . . . 'Twas a good letter, Sam, a mighty good letter. Some time I'll read it to you. Not a complaint in it, just cheerfulness, you know, and--and grit and confidence, but no brag.”
”I see. Well, Charlie writes the same way.”
”Ye-es. They all do, pretty much. Well, how about Phineas? How does the old feller take the news? Have you heard?”
”Why, yes, I've heard. Of course I haven't talked with him. He'd no more speak to me than he would to the Evil One.”
Jed's lip twitched. ”Why, probably not quite so quick, Sam,” he drawled. ”Phin ought to be on pretty good terms with the Old Scratch. I've heard him recommend a good many folks to go to him.”
”Ho, ho! Yes, that's so. Well, Jim Bailey told me that when Phin had read the telegram he never said a word. Just got up and walked into his back shop. But Jerry Burgess said that, later on, at the post-office somebody said somethin' about how Leander must be a mighty good fighter to be recommended for that cross, and Phineas was openin' his mail box and heard 'em. Jerry says old Phin turned and snapped out over his shoulder: 'Why not? He's my son, ain't he?' So there you are. Maybe that's pride, or cussedness, or both. Anyhow, it's Phin Babbitt.”
As the captain was turning to go he asked his friend a question.
”Jed,” he asked, ”what in the world have you taken your front gate off the hinges for?”
Jed, who had been gazing dreamily out to sea for the past few minutes, started and came to life.
”Eh?” he queried. ”Did--did you speak, Sam?”
”Yes, but you haven't yet. I asked you what you took your front gate off the hinges for.”
”Oh, I didn't. I took the hinges off the gate.”
”Well, it amounts to the same thing. The gate's standin' up alongside the fence. What did you do it for?”
Jed sighed. ”It squeaked like time,” he drawled, ”and I had to stop it.”
”So you took the hinges off? Gracious king! Why didn't you ile 'em so they wouldn't squeak?”
”Eh? . . . Oh, I did set out to, but I couldn't find the ile can.
The only thing I could find was the screwdriver and at last I came to the conclusion the Almighty must have meant me to use it; so I did. Anyhow, it stopped the squeakin'.”