A Yankee from the West Part 25

In the evening the hired man returned with his trousers drawing shorter every moment. He swore that he was going to kill the peddler, which of course meant that he would buy another pair from him. He would take off the wretched leg-wear and hang weights to the legs, he said. No peddler could get ahead of him. He called himself an inventive "cuss." He said that his grandfather had sat upon a granite hillside and with a jackknife whittled out a churn-dasher that revolutionized the art of b.u.t.ter-making in that community. He smacked his mouth as he spoke of the delights of the day just ended. It had been like sitting under a rose-bush, with sweetened dew dripping upon him. He had seen his girl trip from one rapture to another, mirroring a smile from the sun and throwing it at him. Her face was joy's looking-gla.s.s. And aside from all that, she had sense. She was an uncommon woman. He was not afraid to tell her everything. It was certain to go no further. He could read a woman the moment he set eyes upon her. They all invited confidence, but few of them were worthy of it. Milford did not have it in his heart to smash the fellow's idol. He said that he was pleased to know that so true a woman had been found.

"Oh, you can trust her all right, Bill. But to tell you the truth, I don't believe you could trust the girl that has set her cap for you. Her tongue's too slippery, and I said to myself that you'd better stick to the Norwegian. I'm not stuck on foreigners myself. The girl I married had a smack of the Canadian French about her. But Lord, she was putty.

You ought to have seen her eyes--black as a blackberry, and dancin' a jig all the time. And they danced me out of the set, I tell you that. I could have her again if I wanted her. But I don't exactly want her.

Would you, Bill?"

"I'd cut her throat."

"Say, you ought to see her throat, speakin' about throats. Puttiest thing you ever seen in your life--white as snow----"

"With the pink of the sunset falling on it," said Milford, with his gluttonous mind's eye upon the Norwegian's neck.

"If that ain't it, I'm the biggest liar that ever milked a cow. Just exactly it. And yet you wouldn't advise me to take her again."

"I'd kick her downstairs," said Milford.

"Yes, that's all right, Bill; but it would save getting a divorce.

Still, my other girl's the thing. I can put confidence in her, and the first one was tricky. I couldn't tell her a thing that wan't repeated.

I'll stand for anythin' sooner than bein' repeated all the time. How are you gettin' along over at the house?"

Milford put him off with the remark that everything was all right so far as he knew. A man may gabble of a love that is spreading over the heart, but when it has gathered the whole world beneath its wings he is more inclined to silence.

The hired man continued to talk. Before he met the freckled woman he had looked forward to sixteen hours a day at eighteen dollars a month. He had not dared to see the flush of the sunrise light his bedroom window, except perhaps on some odd Sunday when he might steal the sweet essence of a forbidden nap, but his "love" for that woman had promised him an unbroken dream at dawn and a breakfast of soft-boiled eggs at eight.

After all, it was fortunate that the first woman had run away. She was saucy and had made his heart laugh, at times, but he was a hired man still, and the cold dew of the morning had cracked his rough boots and caused his wet trousers to flap about his ankles.

"Bill," he asked, "do you ever expect to wear a boiled shirt all the week and sleep till after sun-up?"

Milford had learned that this was the hired man's notion of elegance and of ease. He answered that such a time might come.

"It's got to come with me," said Mitch.e.l.l. "It's comin', and I'd be a fool to dodge it. Yes, sir, and I'm goin' to have me about a dozen shirts made. I don't care so much about the coat and pants; I want the shirts. And I want 'em made as broad as I can fill 'em out, with a ruffle or two, and as white as chalk. That's the way I want to be dressed when fellers come to me and ask if I want to hire a man. Bill, you look like you've made up your mind to do some thin'. What is it? Git married?"

"I came here with my mind already made up," Milford replied, new lines seeming to come to the surface of his countenance. "And I'm not going to change it," he declared, louder of tone, as if he had been debating with himself. "I'm going to follow the line, and then if something else comes, all the better."

"What is your line, Bill?"

"Haven't you learned enough not to ask that?"

"Oh, well, but I didn't know but you'd found out there wouldn't be any harm in tellin' me. We've been working together a good while, and I've got an interest in you. I've told you what my object is."

"To wear white shirts and to see the sun shine in on you of a morning, I believe. That's a good enough object."

"I think so, Bill. At least, it won't do n.o.body no harm. And I tell you what's a fact: I'd like, after a while, to live in town, so's I could come out in the country and clar my throat and ask fellers about the crops. But you always sorter turn up your nose at my object. I wouldn't at yours. Tell a feller what it is, Bill."

"The idea of every man having an object seems to have become rather popular in this community," said Milford. "Everybody looks on me with a sort of suspicion, and this object business comes out of that. You may not know it, but you've been set as a trap to catch me."

The hired man was genuinely astonished. His mouth flew open, and he drooled his surprise. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve; he hemmed, hawed, and grunted. But, after a time, he admitted that his "girl" had shown the edge of a keen interest in Milford. However, there was nothing vicious in it. She had never been stirred by a vicious instinct. She was naturally interested in the man who gave employment to her future husband. Of course, his object did not amount to much when compared with Milford's; he was nothing but a hired man, but presidents had been hired men, and the world could not afford to turn its scornful back upon the affairs of the farm-hand. The field laborer had a heart, a talkative heart, perhaps, but a heart that society would one day learn to fear. It was not heartlessness that would overthrow the political state and trample upon the rich; it was heart, abused heart, that would give crushing weight to the vengeful foot. This was the substance of his talk, the egotism of muscle, a contempt for the luxuries of the refined brain, but with a longing to imitate the appearance of leisure by wearing white linen and lying in bed till the sun was high. Milford recognized the voice of the discontented farmer.

"You remember the speeches of the last campaign," said he. "You believe that the laborer is to overturn society. All right. But that has nothing to do with my object. That makes no difference, however, since everything leads to the distress of the farmer. But I want to tell you and all the rest that it is your own fault, as one and as a whole. You never read anything but murders and robberies, or the grumblings of some skate that wants an office. You haven't schooled yourselves into sharpness enough to see that he is trying to use you. You get up before sunrise, and work till after dark, and think that the whole world is watching you. The world doesn't care a snap, I'll tell you that."

"And that's just it, Bill; the world's tryin' to do us."

"Yes, and it will do you."

"I know it, and that's the reason I want to marry out of it."

"That is to say, you want to 'do' a woman to get out of it yourself.

What do you expect to give her?"

"Why, I'll give her a good husband, a man that'll fight for her, do anything----"

"Except to work for her," Milford broke in. The hired man grinned. "He said that a good husband was about all that a woman ought to expect, these days; he would not fall short, and a man who did not disappoint a good woman came very near to the keeping of all commandments. He was not going to marry for property. But if property made a woman beautiful to the rich, why should it make her ugly to the poor?"

"But you say she is homely and freckled."

"I said freckled, Bill; I didn't say homely. Why, I like freckles. I think they are the puttiest things in the world. They catch me every time. A trout wouldn't be half as putty if he wan't speckled. And if this woman is a trout and has snapped at my fly, all right. The world ain't got a right to say a word."

"The world doesn't know that you are born or ever will be."

"Oh, I know you don't think I amount to much, Bill; I know the world don't care for me, but I'll make her care one of these days."

"When the worm turns on the woodp.e.c.k.e.r."

"That's all right, Bill. Have all the flings you want. But I'll tell you one thing: I don't talk about the Bible bein' the greatest book in the world, and then go in the woods and lay for a feller to mash his mouth.

Oh, I know all about it. My girl's brother see the feller git on the train with his jaw tied up, and I knowed what had happened."

"You say the fellow's mouth was mashed?" said Milford.

"Yes, mashed as flat as a pancake."

"Then you want to keep your mouth shut."

"All right, Bill, I understand."

Milford walked about the room. "We are neglecting everything," he said.

"It's time to feed the cattle." They went out to the barn, neither of them speaking. Mitch.e.l.l climbed into the loft and tossed down the hay; Milford measured out oats to the horses. In silence they returned to the house.

"Why don't you say something?" said Milford.

"When I said the feller's mouth was mashed you said I wanted to keep mine shut. I help you learn how to box till you could out-box me, and I guess you can mash my mouth easy enough, Bill."

"But do you think I would, Bob?"

"No, I can't hardly think so. Got any smokin' tobacco?"

"Fresh bag up there on the shelf. Fill up that briar of mine--the old-timer."

"But you don't want n.o.body to smoke it, do you?"

"You may keep it; I've got another one."