THRIFTY STOCK AND OTHER STORIES

BY BEN AMES WILLIAMS AUTHOR OF “EVERED,” “BLACK PAWL,” ETC. NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 681 Fifth Avenue {iv} Copyright, 1923 By E. P. Dutton & Company All Rights Reserved PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA {v} To ROBERT H. DAVIS

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The following stories of this collection have been previously published: “Old Tantrybogus” and “One Crowded Hour,” in The Saturday Evening Post; “They Grind Exceeding Small,” in The Saturday Evening Post and Current Opinion, and in one of the O. Henry Memorial Volumes; “Mine Enemy’s Dog,” “Not a Drum was Heard,” “Success” (under the title of “So My Luck Began”) and “Sheener,” in Collier’s Weekly; “His Honor,” “The Coward” and “The Man Who Looked Like Edison,” in Cosmopolitan Magazine; “Jeshurun Waxed Fat,” in The Century Magazine; “The Field of Honor,” in The American Magazine; “Thrifty Stock,” in McCall’s Magazine; and “The Right Whale’s Flukes,” in The Bellman. To the editors of these magazines the author makes the customary acknowledgement.{ix}{viii}

PREFACE

The first seven stories in this volume have either locale or characters in common. The village called Fraternity is an actual one; and the surrounding countryside has a beauty which grows with long acquaintance. It is perhaps unnecessary to say that the characters are—with one exception—fictitious. The exception is Mr. A. L. McCorrison, better known as Bert McCorrison, who introduced me to the trout brooks and the woodcock covers thereabouts. To him I here make affectionate acknowledgment for all that introduction has meant to me. He appears in some of the stories, under the name of Chet McAusland.

The third story in the book, “Old Tantrybogus,” is—so far as the dog is concerned—a true story. I never saw old Job, but Bert has told me many things about him, and his exploits are well attested. For the excessive length of this story, an ancient fondness for dogs is my only apology.

The last two stories in the Fraternity group, “Jeshurun Waxed Fat” and “Epitome,” together with the succeeding seven, are each less than four thousand words in length. These stories represent successive attempts to combine brevity with other and more elusive attributes.

It is, perhaps, unnecessary to say that “The{x} Field of Honor” and “The Unconquered” were written during the summer of 1918.

Two of the stories in this book have not been published in any magazine. The two are “Epitome” and the allegory, “A Dream.” In each case, the story has been rejected by numerous editors; the fact that the author has still a stubborn faith in them is his only excuse for including them in this volume.

B. A. W. {xi}

THRIFTY STOCK

I

THE girl, stormful and rebellious, had come out of the old farmhouse above Fraternity, and without much caring in which direction she turned, walked across the stubble of the freshly cut meadow toward the edge of the woods at the crest of the hill. This meadow was really a high plateau; it was fringed with bushes which grew along the crumbling stone wall which bordered it, and with birch and wild cherry trees here and there along its edge. Between these trees she could look abroad across a wooded valley, down whose middle meandered the dead water of the George’s River, backed up by the mill dam at the village. There had been a light shower at dawn, scarce sufficient to settle the dust; and the air, thus clarified, lent lovely colors to the countryside. Deep green of hemlock and spruce and pine, straggling tracery of hackmatack, lighter green of the birch tops almost yellow in the heart of the woods; the blue of distant hillsides; the blue of the sky; the yellow glory of sunlight drenching everything. In an uncut strip of meadow white daisies

bloomed. There were birds about. But to all these matters, Lucia Moore was oblivious. She knew only that her father was stubborn and unreasonable, her mother supine, the world at an ill turn. Drops of{2} water on the stubble wet her ankles; dust and water combined to muddy her impracticable shoes; an occasional bramble tore at her silken stockings. She came to the stone wall at the brink of the hill and chose a large boulder half-shaded by an apple tree that was all run to suckers, and sat down on it, her feet propped upon a stone below, her elbows on her knees, her chin cupped in her hands. The girl’s eyes were sulky, and her lips pouted. There was a hint of color not their own upon these lips of hers, and her eyebrows were plucked to a thin line, their smooth arch distorted by the frown she wore. Her gingham dress was short, and her present posture revealed her thin, unformed legs, which confirmed the almost emaciated slimness of her figure. She stared unseeingly across the lovely land.

Down the slope below her and to the right, Johnny Dree was dusting his orchard. His well-trained team knew their work; they drew the sledge on which he had secured the dusting machine up and down between the wide-spaced rows; and Johnny himself controlled and directed the blast of dust which smothered the trees, depositing itself on every leaf and twig. Now and then, at the turnings, he called a command to the horses; or ran ahead to tug at their reins. He was doing two men’s work, and doing it with very little effort. His voice, pitched musically, carried far across the still hillside on this quiet morning; and the whir of the duster carried further. The spouting clouds of heavy dust rose above the trees, to settle swiftly down again. Lucia Moore heard his voice, heard the duster’s purring, punctuated by{3} the bark of the exhaust; she looked in his direction and saw the violently spouting dust, and wondered who he was and what he was doing. She had an uncontrolled curiosity, and after a few moments her awakened interest brought her down the hill. She

entered the orchard at the side where the Wolf Rivers were planted, a hundred trees of them, the fruit already filling and coloring. Johnny’s father had set out this small orchard with discretion; a hundred Wolf Rivers, a hundred Starks, a hundred Ben Davises. Hardy apples, easily tended, easily handled, easily marketed. Wolf Rivers for fancy trade, for the great city hotels to bake and to serve, crisply browned, with rich cream; Starks and Ben Davises for keeping through the winter. Johnny was in the middle of the Starks when he saw Lucia coming toward him among the trees. After the fashion of the countryside, he looked at her with frank curiosity. He had seen her, at some distance, once or twice before, since Walter Moore bought the run-down farm on the hilltop above his orchard. Had summarized his impressions of rouge, plucked brows, short dresses in a single phrase, “A city girl.” There was no malice in the appellation; it was simply a classification. Her approach now did not embarrass him; there is a self respect in such men, not

easily disturbed. She had paused between two trees at a point he was approaching, and when he came near where she stood, he stopped the horses and waited for her to speak her errand.

Lucia looked at him curiously. She was just twenty years old, but he was only two or three years older, and she was used to boys. His over{4}alls were patched and faded from much washing; his blue shirt seemed fresh and clean; she thought him nice looking, and when she was sure of this, smiled most dazzlingly. Johnny tugged off his cap at that smile, and Lucia said precisely:

“How do you do?”

“Howdo, Miss Moore,” Johnny replied.

Her eyes widened in a pretty affectation. “Oh, how did you know my name?”

His lips were inscrutable, but his eyes were amused. “I guess everybody around here knows you.”

She pouted a little. “That doesn’t sound nice.”

“It don’t do any harm,” he said equably; and she was a little disappointed, had expected flattery. She pointed to the machine, whose engine still racketed.

“What’s that?”

“A duster,” he told her. “Kills the bugs on the trees.”

She made a grimace. “I should think it would. But what a nasty way to do. Smother them with that dust.”

He did smile this time. “The dust’s poison,” he explained. “It sticks to the leaves, and they eat it with the leaves, and it kills them.”

“Why?” she asked.

He understood that she was interested not in the process but the reason for it. “So they won’t hurt the trees; so the trees will bear better,” he told her.

“Papa doesn’t do that to our trees,” she said.

He turned away, and she thought he smiled. “That’s right,” he agreed.{5}

She looked around her. “And there are lots more apples on your trees than on ours, too.”

“That’s because I dust ’em and spray ’em and take care of them,” he said. “You’ve got to treat an apple tree right if you want it to bear right.”

She came gingerly to his side and inspected the duster and asked questions about it, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the dust; and he answered her questions, warming a little at her interest in that which was dear to him. She perceived that she pleased him, and pretended even greater interest, and smiled at him in her most charming fashion. Turned from the machine to the trees about them, plucked an apple and bit into it and threw it away with a grimace. His engine still coughed and barked; he showed no disposition to shut off its ignition and give his time to her. She discovered a waxy bandage upon one of the trees and asked what it was and he told her it was a graft, and would have added some explanation, but her attention flitted elsewhere.

“Where do you live?” she asked presently. “That house up there?”

“Yes.”

“Is it your house?”

“My mother’s and mine,” he replied.

She turned the full battery of her eyes upon him. “Why haven’t you come up to see a fellow?” she asked. “I’ve been awfully lonesome here.”

He was not at all disconcerted, as she had expected him to be. “I hadn’t thought of it,” he said. “I’m pretty busy.”

“You’ll think of it now, won’t you?” she begged{6} prettily. She was, this morning, in a reckless mood; she had been, was still, a spoiled child.

“I might,” he assented, and she thought again there was a smile deep hidden in his eyes.

“I’m used to having boys crazy to come and see me,” she said wistfully; and he did smile; and she was satisfied with this much of victory, and turned and ran away. She ran prettily, and she knew her skirts were none too long. From the border of the orchard, she looked back and lifted her hand to him. He touched his hat in a restrained fashion by way of response; and she ascended the hill, at peace with the world again.

And this was the first encounter between the tender of trees and Lucia Moore.

II

Her father had bought the farm during the winter from Dan Howe, who moved away to Augusta. Dan, Fraternity said, made a good thing out of it. He had paid eighteen hundred, two years before, and had sold off three hundred dollars’ worth of hard wood for ship timbers, carted to Camden. The price Moore paid him was thirty-three hundred dollars. Moore had thought the figure high; but there was in the man a hunger for contact with the soil. His father had been a farm boy, had harked back to his youthful days in reminiscence during his later years. His death left Moore some fifty-two hundred dollars, and made it possible for him to escape from the small store he had run for years in Somerville, at a yearly profit less than he might have earned{7} as salary. He and his wife had perceived, by that time, that Lucia—they had christened her Lucy—was a problem in need of solving. Lucia liked moving pictures, and dancing, and boys, and she was not strong. Country life, they thought, would be good for her; and Moore did not cavil at Dan Howe’s price. Save

for a few hundred dollars, he put the remainder of his legacy, and his own savings, into a newly organized automobile company which seemed to him promising, and came to the hills above Fraternity.

Since then, he had been learning by experience that a horse which can be bought for seventy dollars is probably not worth it, and that pigs cannot profitably be raised with no milk to feed them, and that the directions in printed manuals of the art of farming are not so complete and so reliable as they seem. He was not a practical man. Even the automobile investment had turned out badly; the company was now quietly defunct, without even the formality of a receiver. And he owed a mounting bill at Will Bissell’s store. If it had been possible, he would have escaped from the farm and returned to bondage; but no one would buy the place, and his debts anchored him.

It was Lucia—she had, it appeared, some grain of sense in her—who suggested one day that he might raise apples. “Johnny Dree does,” she explained. This was in early fall, and she had seen Johnny once or twice since that first encounter—at her instance, and not at his. Also she had asked questions, surprisingly shrewd.

Her father nodded. “He’s got a good orchard,” he agreed.{8}

“He’s been picking Wolf Rivers right along,” said Lucia wisely. “He says you can pick the big ones, and the others will grow to make up for it, and he’s going to have hundreds of barrels to sell next month.”

“I’ve looked at our trees,” her father told her. “The apples aren’t good for anything but cider. Full of worms and things.”

“Johnny Dree says you’ve got to take care of a tree,” she insisted impatiently. “But he says—” She hesitated, seeking to remember the word he had used. “He says your trees are good, thrifty stock.”

“It takes years to make an orchard, Lucy,” he said wearily. “You’re talking about impossible things.”

The swift temper which sometimes possessed the girl flamed up at him. “You make me sick!” she cried. “You just sit back and let the world walk over you. You’ve stuck yourself with this damned farm, and now you’re going to sit still and let it smother you. Why don’t you try to do something, anyway? Johnny says you’ve got good orchard land as there is. But you just look wise and think you know it all, and won’t do anything.”

Her mother said wearily: “Lucy, you oughtn’t to swear at your father.”

“Well, he makes me mad!” the girl cried, furiously defiant. “He’s such a damned stubborn fool!”

Moore wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and smiled weakly. “I guess I’m a failure, all{9} right, Lucia,” he agreed. “You’re right to swear at a father like me.”

At his humility, her revulsion was as swift as her anger had been; tenderness swept her. She pressed against him, where he sat beside the table, and with her thin arm drew his head against her fleshless bosom. “You’re not, either, papa!” she cried passionately. “You’re always so patient with me. But I do wish you’d talk to Johnny Dree!”

He reached up to touch her cheek caressingly. “That’s all right, honey,” he said.

“But you will talk to Johnny?”

The man nodded, at last. “All right, Lucy. Yes, I’ll talk to him.”

III

Johnny Dree found a little time, even during the busy weeks of the apple picking, to go with Moore through his orchard, and to search out the trees scattered along the stone walls. He began the work of pruning and trimming them, showed Moore, and showed Lucy, how to continue it. Bade Moore plow under the thick sod around the base of each tree. “Nothing like grass to steal the water an apple tree needs,” he explained. “Grass is worse than weeds.” Before the snow came, much had been done. Moore said once, diffidently:

“I’d like to hire you to help me along with this, Dree!”

But Johnny shook his head. “You don’t want to hire help only when you have to,” he said. “I{10} just come up when I’m not busy at home. You can help me with haying and things, some time.”

The seasons marched monotonously on. The crisp sunshine of fall days, with frost tingling in the air, gave way to bleaker weather, and then to the full rigors of harsh cold, when snow lay thick across the hills, blanketing everything. The routine of little tasks laid itself upon Moore, and upon his wife. Even Lucia, in greater and greater degree, submitted to it. But revolt was always very near the surface in the girl. One day she met Johnny Dree upon the road, and he asked in a friendly way: “Well, you getting to like it here?”

She was in ill humor that morning, and she flamed at him. “Oh, I hate it! I hate it!” she cried. “I wish to God I’d never seen this damned hole. But papa’s got us into it, and we can’t get out, and there’s nothing to do but work and work. Sometimes I wish I were dead.”

He had never heard her swear before; and he looked at her in some astonishment. She was, he thought, so small, and so serenely sweet to look upon that there was something incongruous in her profanity. But he did not speak of his thought at that time; said merely:

“Why, that’s too bad. I thought you were getting to like it, maybe.” And so passed on, leaving her curiously chastened by his very mildness.

There was an interminable sameness in the days. To rise early, to do the morning chores, and cook, and eat, and wash dishes, and dust, and cook, and eat, and wash dishes, and sew, and cook, and eat, and wash dishes, and read the paper, and go fumingly to bed. This was Lucia’s bitter life. But{11} because it is impossible to hold indignation always at its highest pitch, there were hours when she forgot to be unhappy; there were hours when she found something like pleasure in this ordered simplicity of life. Now and then Johnny came in of an evening, and sat in the dining room with them all and talked with her father about apple trees; and Lucia liked, at first, to practice her small cajoleries upon him. He quickly began to call her Lucia, then Lucy as her father and mother did. She preferred the simpler name, upon his simple lips. When the snow thinned and disappeared, and new grass pushed greenly up through the brown that clothed the fields, she was stronger than she had ever been. Her arms were rounding, her figure assuming the proportions

for which it was designed; and her color no longer required external application. When Johnny took Moore into his own orchards and showed him how to apply the dormant spray, and how to search out the borers in the base of the trees and kill them with a bit of wire, or with a plug of poisoned cotton, and all the other mysteries of orchardry, Lucy liked to go along, and learned to do these tasks as well as Johnny, and better than her father did. The trees, fed with well-rotted manure which Johnny preferred to any chemical preparation, and freed from the competition of the grass and weeds which had surrounded them and blanketed their thirsty roots, throve and put out a great burst of bloom, and all the hillside was aglow with color. Lucy began to see hope of release from this long bondage here. When the apples were sold, if the market was good, Johnny thought they{12} might make five or six hundred dollars in a year....

Then one midnight she awoke shivering in a sharp blast from her open window, and drew fresh blankets over her; and in the morning there was white frost on the ground, and Johnny came up the hill with a philosophic smile upon his face. Moore met him at the kitchen door.

“Well,” said Johnny slowly. “We won’t do well this year. This frost has nipped them. I guess not bearing will give your trees a chance to get a better start.”

Moore accepted the calamity with mild protest. Said blankly: “No apples. Why, I’ve got to have something....”

But Lucy was not so mild. From the kitchen behind her father she pushed past him and out upon the porch, her eyes ablaze. “No apples!” she cried, in a voice like a scream. “Why not?”

“This frost has killed them,” said Johnny, his eyes hardening.