Part 25 (1/2)
The hired man, under Daddy's direction, drew the bob-sleighs into position on the sunny side of the corn-crib, and arranged the barrel at the proper slant while the old man ground his knives, Milton turning the grindstone--another hateful task, which Daddy's stories could not alleviate.
Daddy never finished a story. If he started in to tell about a horse-trade, it infallibly reminded him of a cattle trade, and talking of cattle switched him off upon logging, and logging reminded him of some heavy snow-storms he had known. Each parenthesis outgrew its proper limits, till he forgot what should have been the main story. His stories had some compensation, for when he stopped to try to recollect where he was, the pressure on the grindstone was released.
At last the water was hot, and the time came to seize the hogs. This was the old man's great moment. He stood in the pen and shrieked with laughter while the hired men went rolling, one after the other, upon the ground, or were bruised against the fence by the rush of the burly swine.
”You're a fine lot,” he laughed. ”Now, then, sir, _grab 'im_! Why don't ye nail 'im? I vum, sir, if I couldn't do better'n that, sir, I'd sell out; I would, sir, by gol! Get out o' the way!”
With a lofty scorn he waved aside all help and stalked like a gladiator toward the pigs huddled in one corner of the pen. And when the selected victim was rus.h.i.+ng by him, his long arm and great bony hand swept out, caught him by the ear and flung him upon his side, squealing with deafening shrillness. But in spite of his smiling concealment of effort, Daddy had to lean against the fence and catch his breath even while he boasted:
”I'm an old codger, sir, but I'm worth--a dozen o' you--spindle-legged chaps; dum me if I ain't, sir!”
His pride in his ability to catch and properly kill a hog was as genuine as the old knight-errant's pride in his ability to stick a knife into another steel-clothed brigand like himself. When the slain shote was swung upon the planking on the sled before the barrel, Daddy rested, while the boys filled the barrel with water from the kettle.
There was always a weird charm about this stage of the work to the boys.
The sun shone warm and bright in the lee of the corn-crib; the steam rose up, white and voluminous, from the barrel; the eaves dropped steadily; the hens ventured near, nervously, but full of curiosity, while the men laughed and joked with Daddy, starting him off on long stories, and winking at each other when his back was turned.
At last he mounted his planking, selecting Mr. Jennings to pull upon the other handle of the hog-hook. He considered he conferred a distinct honor in this selection.
”The time's been, sir, when I wouldn't thank any man for his help. No, sir, wouldn't thank 'im.”
”What do you do with these things?” asked one of the men, kicking two iron candlesticks which the old man laid conveniently near.
”Sc.r.a.pe a hawg with them, sir? What did y' s'pose, you numbskull?”
”Well, I never saw anything”----
”You'll have a chance mighty quick, sir. Grab ahold, sir! Swing 'im around--there! Now easy, easy! Now, then, one, two; one, two--that's right.”
While he dipped the porker in the water, pulling with his companion rhythmically upon the hook, he talked incessantly, mixing up sc.r.a.ps of stories and boastings of what he could do, with commands of what he wanted the other man to do.
”The best man I ever worked with. _Now turn 'im, turn 'im!_” he yelled, reaching over Jennings' wrist. ”Grab under my wrist. There! won't ye never learn how to turn a hawg? _Now, out with 'im!_” was his next wild yell, as the steaming hog was jerked out of the water upon the planking.
”Now try the hair on them ears! Beautiful scald,” he said, clutching his hand full of bristles and beaming with pride. ”Never see anything finer.
Here, Bub, a pail of hot water, quick! Try one of them candlesticks!
They ain't no better sc.r.a.per than the bottom of an old iron candlestick; no, sir! Dum your new-fangled sc.r.a.pers! I made a bet once with old Jake Ridgeway that I could sc.r.a.pe the hair off'n two hawgs, by gum, quicker'n he could one. Jake was blowin' about a new sc.r.a.per he had ...
”Yes, yes, yes, dump it right into the barrel. Condemmit! Ain't you got no gumption?... So Sim Smith, he held the watch. Sim was a mighty good hand t'work with; he was about the only man I ever sawed with who didn't ride the saw. He could jerk a cross-cut saw.... Now let him in again, now; _he-ho_, once again! _Roll him over now_; that foreleg needs a tech o' water. Now out with him again; that's right, that's right! By gol, a beautiful scald as ever I see!”
Milton, standing near, caught his eye again. ”Clean that ear, sir! What the devil you standin' there for?” He returned to his story after a pause. ”A--n--d Jake he sc.r.a.ped away--_Hyare_,” he shouted, suddenly, ”don't ruggle the skin like that! Can't you see the way I do it? Leave it smooth as a baby, sir--yessir!”
He worked on in this way all day, talking unceasingly, never s.h.i.+rking a hard job, and scarcely showing fatigue at any moment.
”I'm short o' breath a leetle, that's all; never git tired, but my wind gives out. Dum cold got on me, too.”
He ate a huge supper of liver and potatoes, still working away hard at an ancient horse-trade, and when he drove off at night, he had not yet finished a single one of the dozen stories he had begun.
III.