Part 57 (1/2)
”Oh, well, you won't have me long to bother you,” said Caleb sadly, as he tottered to a chair. His face was white and he looked sick and shaky.
”What's the matter, father?”
”Oh, I'm pretty bad. I won't last much longer You'll be quit o' me before many days.”
”Big loss!” grumbled d.i.c.k.
”I--I give you my farm an' everything I had--”
”Oh, shut up. I'm sick of hearing about it.”
”At least--'most--everything. I--I--I--didn't say nothing about a little wad o'--o'--bills I had stored away. I--I--” and the old man trembled violently--”I'm so cold.”
”d.i.c.k, do make a fire,” said his wife.
”I won't do no sich fool trick. It's roastin' hot now.”
”'Tain't much,” went on the trembling old man, ”only fif--fif--teen hundred--dollars. I got it here now,” and he drew out the roll of greenbacks.
_FIFTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS!_ Twice as much as the whole farm and stock were worth! d.i.c.k's eyes fairly popped out, and Caleb was careful to show also the handle of the white revolver.
”Why, father,” exclaimed Saryann, ”you are ill: Let me go get you some brandy. d.i.c.k, make a fire. Father is cold as ice.”
”Yes--please--fire--I'm all of--a--tremble--with--cold.”
d.i.c.k rushed around now and soon the big fire place was filled with blaze and the room unpleasantly warm.
”Here, father, have some brandy and water,” said d.i.c.k, in a very different tone. ”Would you like a little quinine?”
”No, no--I'm better now; but I was saying--I only got a few days to live, an' having no legal kin--this here wad'd go to the gover'ment, but I spoke to the lawyer, an' all I need do--is--add--a word to the deed o' gift--for the farm--to include this--an' it's very right you should have it, too.” Old Caleb shook from head to foot and coughed terribly.
”Oh, father, let me send for the doctor,” pleaded Saryann, and d.i.c.k added feebly, ”Yes, father, let me go for the doctor.”
”No, no; never mind. It don't matter. I'll be better off soon. Have you the deed o' gift here?”
”Oh, yes, d.i.c.k has it in his chest.” d.i.c.k ran to get the deed, for these were the days before registration in Canada; possession of the deed was possession of the farm, and to lose the deed was to lose the land.
The old man tremblingly fumbled over the money, seeming to count it--”Yes--just--fif-teen hun'erd,” as d.i.c.k came clumping down the ladder with the deed.
”Have you got a--pen--and ink--”
d.i.c.k went for the dried-up ink bottle while Saryann hunted for _the_ pen. Caleb's hand trembled violently as he took the parchment, glanced carefully over it--yes, this was it--the thing that had made him a despised pauper. He glanced around quickly. d.i.c.k and Saryann were at the other end of the room. He rose, took one step forward and stuffed the deed into the blazing fire. Holding his revolver in his right hand and the poker in the left, he stood erect and firm, all sign of weakness gone; his eyes were ablaze, and with voice of stern command he hissed ”_Stand back!_” And pointed the pistol as he saw d.i.c.k rus.h.i.+ng to rescue the deed. In a few seconds it was wholly consumed, and with that, as all knew, the last claim of the Pogues on the property, for Caleb's own possessory was safe in a vault at Downey's.
”Now,” thundered Caleb, ”you dirty paupers, get out of my house! Get off my land, and don't you dare touch a thing belonging to me.”
He raised his voice in a long ”halloo” and rapped three times on the table. Steps were heard outside. Then in came Raften with two men.
”Magistrate Raften, clear my house of them interlopers, if ye please.”