The Fourth Watch Part 13

"That ain't the 'boss's order, sir. 'Fetch her, Pete,' sez he, 'an' let nuthin' stop ye. If they hev the money to pay, don't take it. The cow's of more value to me than money.' Them's his very orders."

"Oh, I see, I see," Mr. Westmore remarked, as a stern look crossed his face, and his eyes flashed with indignation. "It's not the money your master wants, but only the pound of flesh."

"Boss didn't say nuthin' 'bout any pound of flesh. He only said 'the cow,'

an' the cow he'll git if Pete Davis knows anything."

Quick as a flash Parson John's hand dove deep into his capacious pocket.

He whipped out a clasp-knife, opened it, and with one vigorous stroke severed the rope about one foot from the cow's head.

"There!" he cried to the staring, gaping Pete. "Take that rope to your master, and tell him what I have done. Leave the matter to me. I alone will be responsible for this deed."

The appearance of Mr. Westmore at this moment was enough to awe even the most careless. His gigantic form was drawn to its fullest height. His flashing eyes, turned full upon Pete's face, caused that obsequious menial to fall back a step or two. Even a blow from the parson's clenched fist just then would not have been a surprise. His spirit at this moment was that of the prophets of old, and even of the Great Master Himself, upholding justice and defending the cause of the poor and down-trodden.

For an instant only they faced each other. Then, Pete's eyes dropped as the eyes of an abashed dog before his master. He stooped for the rope, which had fallen to the ground, and slowly gathered it into a little coil.

But still he maintained his ground.

"Are you going?" demanded the parson.

"Yes," came the surly response. "I'm goin', but remember you hev interfered with Si Farrington's lawful bizness, so beware! I'll go an'

tell 'im what ye say. Oh, yes, I'll go, but you'll hear from 'im again.

Oh, yes, ye'll hear."

"Let 'im come 'imself next time fer the cow," spoke up Mrs. Stickles, who had been silently watching the proceedings. "I'd like fer 'im to come. I'd like to git me fingers into his hair an' across his nasty, scrawny face.

That's what I'd like to do."

"Hold yer tongue!" shouted Pete, "an'----"

"There now, no more of that," commanded Mr. Westmore. "We've had too many words already, so take yourself off."

They watched him as he moved down the lane to the road. He was followed by Tommy Jones, who had stood through it all with mouth wide open, and eyes staring with astonishment. When they were at length clear of the place the parson gave a sigh of relief, and across his face flitted a smile--like sunshine after storm.

Chapter XII

Light and Shadow

Upon entering the house Mr. Westmore divested himself of his great-coat, and stood warming himself by the kitchen fire, while Mrs. Stickles bustled around, smoothing down the bedclothes and putting the room to rights in which her sick husband lay. The kitchen floor was as white as human hands could make it, and the stove shone like polished ebony. Upon this a kettle steamed, while underneath a sleek Maltese cat was curled, softly purring in calm content.

Dan, a.s.sisted by the little Stickles, stabled Midnight, after which he was conducted over to the back of the barn to enjoy the pleasure of coasting down an icy grade. The only sound, therefore, was Mrs. Stickles' voice in the next room as she related to "her man" the wonderful events which had just taken place. A slight smile of pleasure crossed the parson's face as he listened to her words and thought of the big honest heart beneath that marvellous tongue. The sun of the winter day was streaming through the little window and falling athwart the foot of the bed as Mr. Westmore entered the room and grasped the sick man's white, outstretched hand.

"G.o.d bless ye, sir," exclaimed Mr. Stickles, "fer what ye hev done fer me an' mine to-day. It ain't the first time by a long chalk. The Lord will reward ye, even if I can't."

"Tut, tut, man, don't mention it," Mr. Westmore replied as he took a seat by the bed. "And how are you feeling to-day, Mr. Stickles?"

"Only middlin', Parson, only middlin'. Simply joggin', simply joggin'."

Mrs. Stickles seated herself in a splint-bottomed chair, and picked up her knitting which had been hurriedly dropped upon the arrival of Pete Davis.

How her fingers did work! It was wonderful to watch them. How hard and worn they were, and yet so nimble. The needles flew with lightning rapidity, clicking against one another with a rhythmical cadence; the music of humble, consecrated work. But when Mr. Westmore began to tell about Tim Fraser, and his sudden death, the knitting dropped into her lap, and she stared at the speaker with open-eyed astonishment.

"An' do ye mean to tell me," she exclaimed, when the parson had finished, "that Tim Fraser is dead?"

"Yes, it's only too true, Mrs. Stickles. Poor man--poor man!"

"Ye may well call 'im poor, Parson, fer I'm thinkin' that's jist what he is at this blessed minute. He's in a bad way now, I reckon."

"Hush, hush, Marthy," her husband remonstrated. "We must not judge too harshly."

"I'm not, John, I'm not, an' the parson knows I'm not. But if Tim isn't sizzlin', then the Bible's clean wrong," and the needles clicked harder than ever.

"It teaches us the uncertainty of life," replied Mr. Westmore. "It shows how a man with great strength, and health can be stricken down in an instant. How important it is to be always ready when the call does come."

"Ye're right, Parson, ye're surely right," and Mrs. Stickles stopped to count her st.i.tches. "Wasn't John an' me talkin' about that only last night. I was readin' the Bible to 'im, an' had come to that story about poor old Samson, an' his hard luck."

"'It's very strange,' sez John, sez he to me, 'that when Samson lost his hair he lost his great strength, too. I can't unnerstan' it nohow.'"

"'Why, that's simple enough,' sez I to 'im. 'The Lord when He let Samson's strength rest in his hair jist wanted to teach 'im how unsartin a thing strength is. 'Why, anyone can cut off yer hair,' sez I, 'an' ye know, John,' sez I, 'ye don't allus have to cut it off, either, fer it falls out like yourn, John--fer yer almost bald.' Ain't them the exact words I said, John, an' only last night at that?"

"Yes, Marthy. That's just what ye said, an' we see how true it is. Tim Fraser was a powerful man as fer as strength an' health goes, but what did it all amount to? He lost it as quick as Samson of old. Ah, yes, a man's a mighty weak thing, an' his strength very unsartin, an' hangs by a slender thread. Look at me, parson. Once I was able to stan' almost anything, an'

here I be a useless log--a burden to meself an' family."

"Don't say that, John, dear," remonstrated Mrs. Stickles wiping her eyes with her ap.r.o.n. "Ye know ye ain't a bother. Yer as patient as a fly in mola.s.ses. The fly is thar an' can't help it, an' so are you, John. It's the Lord's will, an' ye've often said so. He'll look after me an' the little ones. He's never forsaken us yit, an' I guess He won't if we stick to 'im."

"Your children are certainly a credit to you, Mrs. Stickles," remarked Mr.

Westmore. "You should be proud of them."

"I am, sir, indeed I am," and the worthy woman's face beamed with pleasure. "But it takes a lot of 'scretion, Parson, to handle a big family. I've often said to John that children are like postage-stamps.

They've got to be licked sometimes to do the work they were intended to do. But if ye lick 'em too much, ye spile 'em. Oh, yes, it takes great 'scretion to bring up a family."

"You certainly have used great discretion," replied Parson John, much amused at Mrs. Stickles' words. "I suppose those who are working out are just as dear as the four little ones at home?"

"They're all dear to me, sir, all dear. I kin count 'em all on me ten fingers, no more an' no less. Now some fingers are larger than t'others, and some smaller, an' some more useful than t'others an' do more work, but I couldn't part with one. So as I often tell John our children are jist like me ten fingers. I couldn't do without one of 'em--ah, no, bless their dear hearts."

The sound of little feet and childish voices caused them to look towards the kitchen. There they beheld the four little Stickles, with Dan in the midst, standing in a row by the stove.

"Ho, ho!" exclaimed the parson, rising and going towards them. "So here you are, as fresh and active as ever."

Diving deep into his pocket he brought forth a generous piece of home-made candy.

"Sweets for the sweet," he cried. "Now, who's to have this?"

At once a rush ensued and four little forms surrounded him.

"Wait, wait; not yet!" and the good man held the candy aloft. "Nothing given away here. You must earn every bit. All in a row now. There, that's better," and he lined them up, like a veteran schoolmaster, proud of his little cla.s.s. "Come, I want your names. You begin," and he tapped the nearest to him on the shoulder.

"John Medley Stickles, sir," came the quick reply.