Old Ebenezer Part 23

"I did say that," she answered, "yes, and I have censured myself a thousand times. I hoped that you had not heard me. I am awfully sorry."

"Oh, I don't take it to heart. It hurt my pride a little and it gave me a wrong impression of you."

"Let us forget it. I was always a fool--until after that night. But about the woman, what became of her?"

"I don't know. She blew away like the down of the dandelion."

"And you didn't see her again?"

"Never again."

"But you dreamed of her?"

"No. You misunderstand me. I didn't fall in love with her. I say that I might have loved her. Perhaps upon becoming acquainted with her, I might have smiled at my foolish belief--might have found her uninteresting."

"You said there was one or two--the other one? What about her?"

"I don't remember her at all. I say that I may have seen her, but I don't recall her."

"Perhaps the other one has read your story."

"Or perhaps her daughter honeyed over it on her wedding journey," he suggested, laughing.

A light vehicle rattled down the road, and she looked up. "I was thinking that someone might drive past and recognize us," she said.

"It may be wrong, but I don't want father to know that we meet, except by accident."

"Wasn't this meeting an accident?" he asked, hoping that she would say it was not, on her part.

"Yes. But sitting here under this tree is not. And I must go," she added, arising. He got up and stood there, hoping that she would hold out her hand to him, but she did not. "Good-bye," she said, smiling as she turned away.

"Let me hope for another accident, soon," Lyman replied, bowing to her.

CHAPTER XVIII.

AT THE WAGON-MAKER'S SHOP.

Sawyer drove rapidly toward Spring Hill, about eight miles distant from Old Ebenezer. The land was uneven, with oak ridges, beech slopes and sh.e.l.l-bark hickory flats, but the road was smooth, and for the two trotting horses the buggy was merely a plaything. He drew up at a wagon-maker's shop, the end of his journey, and threw the lines to a negro who came forward to meet him.

"You needn't feed them," he said. "Take the harness off and let them run about the lot. They've been shut up till they're frisky."

A large man, in his shirt sleeves, and with collar unb.u.t.toned, met him at the door.

"h.e.l.loa, Mr. Zeb."

"h.e.l.loa, Steve, where's Bob?"

"Come in. He's about, somewhere."

Sawyer entered and sat down on a large block of wood, his feet half hidden in a pile of chips. A hand-saw, hanging on the wall, caught a shaft of light from the sun, and threw it into his eyes. He turned slightly and spoke to the wagon-maker.

"How's business with you?"

"Bad enough. People can buy wagons a good deal cheaper than I can afford to make 'em. They tell me that up north a man can go into a place and they'll make him a wagon while he waits, ironed and all ready for the road, and for a third less than I can do it. I can't buck against anything like that. I've got to get my timber out of the woods and season it, and take care of it like it was a lame leg, and all that sort of thing, to say nothin' of the work after I get down to it. Just before the election," said the wagon-maker, sitting down upon an unfinished hub, taking up an oak splinter and putting one end of it into his mouth, "a man come around here and 'lowed, he did, that if we could get a majority of farmers into the legislature, the condition of affairs would be changed. He 'lowed that they'd make it a point to put a tax on wagons not made in the state. Well, they got in, and about all they did was to fight the railroads, tear the digest to pieces and tinker with the marriage law, as some of you folks in Old Ebenezer have good cause to know. Why, if you read the papers at the time, you recollect that one old feller from Blaxon county said that marriage license was an outrage--'lowed, he did, that there wa'n't no license writ out for Adam. Yes, and he said that down in his neighborhood several young fellers held off from marryin' because they couldn't afford to pay for the license. He said it was a sin and a shame to put a tax on a man that was tryin' to do somethin' for his country."

"Do you think Bob will be back pretty soon?" Sawyer asked, working his feet deep down among the chips.

"Yes, he ought to be here now. If he don't come pretty soon I'll send the n.i.g.g.e.r to look for him. How's that marriage of McElwin's daughter gettin' along?"

"Not at all. It's just the same."

"Feller still there?"

"Yes; he's running the paper."

"Don't 'pear to mind it, I reckon. I wonder McElwin don't hire him to pull out. Well, down in this neighborhood we've got a way of settlin'

such things. We tell a feller to go and if he refuses, why, we see that he goes. We've got a mighty lively set of young fellers."

"And your brother Bob is one of the liveliest," said Sawyer.

"Well, Bob ain't slow. The other night they took out a feller over on Caney Fork, feller that had dropped into the habit of whippin' his wife--and they hit him about forty-five, with a promise of more; and they say now that he's as sweet to his home folks as a June apple-pie.

Oh, it do have a powerful sweetenin' effect on a sour citizen. Any sour citizens up your way?"

"One," Sawyer answered.

"Don't know why, but I sorter thought so. It's dangerous in town, ain't it?"

"Not when you fix everything."

"Well, then, go ahead, but keep outer the way of the law. Here's Bob now."

A tall, gaunt young fellow stepped into the shop. He was a type of the southern ruralist, broad, flapping straw hat, home-woven shirt, cottonade trousers, one suspender. He grinned upon seeing Sawyer, and said, "Hi."

"Ho, Bob. Busy tonight?"

"Ain't rushed. Anything blowing in the wind?"

"A little fun, that's all."

"Then let her blow my way. Steve, here, 'lows he's gettin' so old that he don't care for fun any more, but I have to have it--bread and blackberry jam to me."

"Well, you shall have it. How are the boys, the White Caps?"

"Finer'n silk split three times."

"Can you call them together for tonight?"