Westerfelt Part 7

Farther on in this row, opposite the jail of the place, and partially hidden by the thinning foliage of sycamore, chestnut, and mulberry trees, was the hotel. It was the only two-storied building in the village. It had dormer windows in the roof and a long veranda in front.

Somehow this building interested Westerfelt more than any of the others. He told himself it was because he intended to get his meals there. Finally he decided, as he was not to dine that day with the Bradleys, that he ought to go over at once and speak to the landlady about his board. As he arranged his cravat before the little walnut-framed mirror, which the stable-boys in placing his furniture had hung on the wall, together with a hairbrush and a comb tied to strings, he wondered, with no little pleasurable excitement, if Harriet Floyd had anything to do with the management of the house, and if he would be apt to meet her that morning.

Descending to the office on his way out, he found a young man writing at a desk. It was William Washburn, the book-keeper for the former owners of the livery-stable, whom Westerfelt had retained on Bradley's recommendation. Washburn was copying accounts from a ledger on to sheets of paper.

"How are they running?" asked Westerfelt, looking over the young man's shoulder.

"Lots of 'em hain't wuth the paper they are on," replied Washburn.

"The old firm knowed everybody in creation, an' never could refuse a soul. When you bought the accounts you didn't buy gold dollars."

"I know that, but Bradley said he thought I might collect a good many of them."

"Oh yes; maybe a half, or tharabouts."

"Well," said Westerfelt, indifferently, "we'll do the best we can."

"Thar's a big un that's no good." Washburn pointed to an account he had just copied.

"Who's it on?"

"Toot Wambush."

"How much?"

"Seventy-eight dollars an' fifty cents. It's been runnin' on fer two yeer, an' thar hain't a single credit on it. He never was knowed to pay a cent to n.o.body."

"Don't let anything out to him till the account is paid."

Washburn looked up with a dubious smile. "He'll raise a' awful row.

He never wants to go anywhar tell he's drinkin', an' then he's as ill as a snake an' will fight at the drop of a hat. n.o.body in Cartwright dares to refuse 'im credit."

"I will, if he doesn't pay up."

"D' y' ever see 'im?"

"Yes, last night."

"I'd be cautious if I wus you; he's a dangerous man, an' takes offence at the slightest thing."

"If he gets mad at me for refusing to let him drive my horses when he owes a bill like that, and won't pay it, he can do so. I obey the law myself, and I will not let drunkards run my business to suit themselves."

"He's talking 'bout goin' out to his father's this morning, an' wants to drive the same rig he had last night."

"I did not know he had my turnout last night."

"Yes, you wusn't heer, an' I knowed he'd make trouble if I refused him."

"That's all right, but don't let him get in any deeper till the old debt is settled. I'm going over to the hotel a minute."

It was a warm day for October, and the veranda of the hotel was crowded with loungers, homely men in jeans, slouched hats, and coa.r.s.e brogans.

Some of them sat on the benches, supported by the square columns, at the end of the veranda; a few had tilted their chairs against the wall, and others stood in groups and talked county politics.

They all eyed Westerfelt curiously, and some of them nodded and said "Howdy do" as he pa.s.sed. He entered the parlor on the right of the long hall which ran through the centre of the main wing. A slovenly negro girl was sweeping the hearth. She leaned her broom against the cottage organ and went to call her mistress.

A sombre rag carpet was on the floor, and a rug made of brilliant red and blue sc.r.a.ps of silk lay in front of the fire. On a centre-table, covered with a red flannel cloth, stood a china vase, filled with colored leaves and gra.s.ses, and lying near it was a plush photograph alb.u.m. The rest of the furniture consisted of an ancient hair-cloth sofa, an old rocking-chair, the arms of which had been tied on with twine, and a sewing-machine. The windows had cheap lace curtains, stiff enough to stand alone, and green shades with tinselled decorations. The plastered walls were whitewashed and the ceiling was faded sky-blue.

He heard a door close somewhere in the rear, and then with a light step Harriet Floyd entered.

"Good-morning," she said, slightly embarra.s.sed. "Mother was busy, and so she asked me to come in."

"I believe we were introduced, in a general way, last night," he said.

"I hope you remember."

"Oh yes, indeed," she made answer.

He thought she was even prettier in the daylight in her simple calico dress and white ap.r.o.n than she had appeared the evening before, and he was conscious that the sharp realization of this fact was causing him to pause unnecessarily long before speaking in his turn. But he simply could not help it; he experienced a subtle pleasure he could not explain in watching her warm, slightly flushed face. Her eyes held a wonderful charm for him. There seemed to be a strange union of forces between her long lashes and the pupils of her eyes, the like of which he believed he had never met before.

"I've come to see if I can get my meals here," he said. "It is near my place of business, and I've heard a lot of good things about your mother's table."

"We always have plenty of room," she answered, simply. "Mother will be glad to have you. Won't you take a seat?" She sat down on the sofa and he took a chair opposite her.

"I suppose you enjoyed the party last night," he said, tentatively.

He fancied she raised her brows a little and glanced at him rather steadily, but she looked down when she replied.

"Yes; Mrs. Bradley always gives us a good time."

"But you were not dancing."

"No, I don't care much for it, and Toot--Mr. Wambush--had sprained his foot and said he'd rather not dance."

"That was very kind of you. Not many girls would be so considerate of a fellow's feelings."

She looked down at a brindled cat that came into the room and rubbed its side against her skirt.

"I don't think girls care enough about the feelings of men," she answered, after a little pause. "If they would treat them nicer they would be better."

"You think women can reform men then?"

"Yes, I do; though a man that drinks is mighty hard to manage.

Sometimes they can't help it, and they drink more when women show that they have lost confidence in them."

He liked what she had said, notwithstanding its being an indirect defence of Wambush, but was prevented from answering by hearing his name angrily called in the street. This was followed by heavy footsteps on the veranda.

"Whar is that d----d livery man?" The voice was now in the hall.

"It's Toot Wambush!" cried the girl, rising quickly and turning to the door. "I am afraid he--" Just then the young ruffian entered. His red face and unsteady walk showed that he had been drinking.

"Say, Miss Harriet, have you seed--oh, heer you are!"--he broke off as he noticed Westerfelt. "You are the one man in the United Kingdom that I want to see jest at this present moment. Bill Washburn 'lowed he had orders from you not to let me have anything out'n yore shebang; is that so?"