Part 1 (1/2)
The Southerner.
by Thomas Dixon.
PROLOGUE
I
Tom seated himself at the table and looked into his wife's face with a smile:
”Nancy, it's a meal fit for a king!”
The supper over, he smoked his pipe before the cabin fire of blazing logs, while she cleared the wooden dishes. He watched her get the paper, goose-quill pen and ink as a prisoner sees the scaffold building for his execution.
”Now we're all ready,” she said cheerfully.
The man laid his pipe down with a helpless look. A brief respite flashed through his mind. Maybe he could sidestep the lessons before she pinned him down.
”Lord, Nancy, I forgot my gun. I must grease her right away,” he cried.
He rose with a quick decisive movement and took his rifle from the rack.
She knew it was useless to protest and let him have his way.
Over every inch of its heavy barrel and polished walnut stock he rubbed a piece of greased linen with loving care, drew back the flint-lock and greased carefully every nook and turn of its mechanism, lifted the gun finally to his shoulder and drew an imaginary bead on the head of a turkey gobbler two hundred yards away. A glowing coal of hickory wood in the fire served for his game.
He lowered the gun and held it before him with pride:
”Nancy, she's the dandiest piece o' iron that wuz ever twisted inter the shape of a weepon. Old 'Speakeasy's her name! She's got the softest voice that ever whispered death to a varmint or an Injun--hit ain't much louder'n the crack of a whip, but, man alive, when she talks she says somethin'. 'Kerpeow!' she whispers soft an' low! She's got a voice like yourn, Nancy--kinder sighs when she speaks----”
”Well,” the wife broke in with a shake of her dark head, ”has mother's little boy played long enough with his toy?”
”I reckon so,” Tom laughed.
”Then it's time for school.” She gently took the rifle from his hands, placed it on the buck horns and took her seat at the table.
The man looked ruefully at the stool, suddenly straightened his ma.s.sive frame, lifted his hand above his head and c.o.c.ked his eye inquiringly:
”May I git er drink er water fust?”
The teacher laughed in spite of herself:
”Yes, you big lubber, and hurry up.”
Tom seized the water bucket and started for the door.
”Where are you going?” she cried in dismay.
”I'll jest run down to the spring fer a fresh bucket----”
”O Tom!” she exclaimed.