CHAPTER XI
If many things had happened to Clara Butterworth in the three yearssince that day when John May so rudely tripped her first hesitatinggirlish attempt to run out to life, things had also happened to thepeople she had left behind in Bidwell. In so short a space of timeher father, his business associate Steve Hunter, Ben Peeler the towncarpenter, Joe Wainsworth the harness maker, almost every man and womanin town had become something different in his nature from the man orwoman bearing the same name she had known in her girlhood.
Ben Peeler was forty years old when Clara went to Columbus to school. Hewas a tall, slender, stoop-shouldered man who worked hard and was muchrespected by his fellow townsmen. Almost any afternoon he might havebeen seen going through Main Street, wearing his carpenter's apron andwith a carpenter's pencil stuck under his cap and balanced on his ear.He went into Oliver Hall's hardware store and came out with a largepackage of nails under his arm. A farmer who was thinking of building anew barn stopped him in front of the post-office and for a half hour thetwo men talked of the project. Ben put on his glasses, took the pencilout of his cap and made some notation on the back of the package ofnails. "I'll do a little figuring; then I'll talk things over with you,"he said. During the spring, summer and fall Ben had always employedanother carpenter and an apprentice, but when Clara came back to townhe was employing four gangs of six men each and had two foremen to watchthe work and keep it moving, while his son, who in other times wouldalso have been a carpenter, had become a salesman, wore fancy vests andlived in Chicago. Ben was making money and for two years had not drivena nail or held a saw in his hand. He had an office in a frame buildingbeside the New York Central tracks, south of Main Street, and employed abook-keeper and a stenographer. In addition to carpentry he had embarkedin another business. Backed by Gordon Hart, he had become a lumberdealer and bought and sold lumber under the firm name of Peeler andHart. Almost every day cars of lumber were unloaded and stacked undersheds in the yard back of his office. He was no longer satisfiedwith his income as a workman but, under the influence of Gordon Hart,demanded also a swinging profit on the building materials. Ben now droveabout town in a vehicle called a buckboard and spent the entire dayhurrying from job to job. He had no time now to stop for a half hour'sgossip with a prospective builder of a barn, and did not come to loaf inBirdie Spinks' drug-store at the end of the day. In the evening he wentto the lumber office and Gordon Hart came over from the bank. The twomen figured on jobs to be built, rows of workingmen's houses, shedsalongside one of the new factories, large frame houses for thesuperintendents and other substantial men of the town's new enterprises.In the old days Ben had been glad to go occasionally into the country ona barn-building job. He had liked the country food, the gossip withthe farmer and his men at the noon hour and the drive back and forth totown, mornings and evenings. While he was in the country he managed tomake a deal for his winter potatoes, hay for his horse, and perhaps abarrel of cider to drink on winter evenings. Now he had no time to thinkof such things. When a farmer came to see him he shook his head. "Getsome one else to figure on your job," he advised. "You'll save moneyby getting a barn-building carpenter. I can't bother. I have too manyhouses to build." Ben and Gordon sometimes worked in the lumber officeuntil midnight. On warm still nights the sweet smell of new-cut boardsfilled the air of the yard and crept in through the open windows, butthe two men, intent on their figures, did not notice. In the earlyevening one or two teams came back to the yard to finish hauling lumberto a job where the men were to work on the next day. The voices of themen, talking and singing as they loaded their wagons, broke the silence.Later the wagons loaded high with boards went creaking away. When thetwo men grew tired and sleepy, they locked the office and walked throughthe yard to the driveway that led to a residence street. Ben was nervousand irritable. One evening they found three men, sleeping on a pile ofboards in the yard, and drove them out. It gave both men something tothink about. Gordon Hart went home and before he slept made up his mindthat he would not let another day go by without getting the lumber inthe yard more heavily insured. Ben had not handled affairs long enoughto come quickly to so sensible a decision. All night he rolled andtumbled about in his bed. "Some tramp with his pipe will set the placeafire," he thought. "I'll lose all the money I've made." For a long timehe did not think of the simple expedient of hiring a watchman to drivesleepy and penniless wanderers away, and charging enough more for hislumber to cover the additional expense. He got out of bed and dressed,thinking he would get his shotgun out of the barn and go back to theyard and spend the night. Then he undressed and got into bed again."I can't work all day and spend my nights down there," he thoughtresentfully. When at last he slept, he dreamed of sitting in the lumberyard in the darkness with the gun in his hand. A man came toward him andhe discharged the gun and killed the man. With the inconsistency commonto the physical aspect of dreams, the darkness passed away and it wasdaylight. The man he had thought dead was not quite dead. Althoughthe whole side of his head was torn away, he still breathed. His mouthopened and closed convulsively. A dreadful illness took possession ofthe carpenter. He had an elder brother who had died when he was a boy,but the face of the man on the ground was the face of his brother. Bensat up in bed and shouted. "Help, for God's sake, help! It's my ownbrother. Don't you see, it is Harry Peeler?" he cried. His wife awokeand shook him. "What's the matter, Ben," she asked anxiously. "What'sthe matter?" "It was a dream," he said, and let his head drop wearily onthe pillow. His wife went to sleep again, but he stayed awake therest of the night. When on the next morning Gordon Hart suggested theinsurance idea, he was delighted. "That settles it of course," he saidto himself. "It's simple enough, you see. That settles everything."
In his shop on Main Street Joe Wainsworth had plenty to do afterthe boom came to Bidwell. Many teams were employed in the hauling ofbuilding materials; loads of paving brick were being carted from cars towhere they were to be laid on Main Street; and teams hauled earth fromwhere the new Main Street sewer was being dug and from the freshly dugcellars of houses. Never had there been so many teams employed and somuch repairing of harness to do. Joe's apprentice had left him, had beencarried off by the rush of young men to the places where the boom hadarrived earlier. For a year Joe had worked alone and had then employeda journeyman harness maker who had drifted into town drunk and who gotdrunk every Saturday evening. The new man was an odd character. He had afaculty for making money, but seemed to care little about making itfor himself. Within a week after he came to town he knew every one inBidwell. His name was Jim Gibson and he had no sooner come to workfor Joe than a contest arose between them. The contest concerned thequestion of who was to run the shop. For a time Joe asserted himself. Hegrowled at the men who brought harness in to be repaired, and refused tomake promises as to when the work would be done. Several jobs were takenaway and sent to nearby towns. Then Jim Gibson asserted himself. Whenone of the teamsters who had come to town with the boom came with aheavy work harness on his shoulder, he went to meet him. The harness wasthrown with a rattling crash on the floor and Jim examined it. "Oh, thedevil, that's an easy job," he declared. "We'll fix that up in a jiffy.You can have it to-morrow afternoon if you want it."
For a time Jim made it a practice to come to where Joe stood at work athis bench and consult with him regarding prices to be charged forwork. Then he returned to the customer and charged more than Joe hadsuggested. After a few weeks he slopped consulting Joe at all. "You'reno good," he exclaimed, laughing. "What you're doing in business I don'tknow." The old harness maker stared at him for a minute and then wentto his bench and to work. "Business," he muttered, "what do I know aboutbusiness? I'm a harness maker, I am."
After Jim came to work for him, Joe made in one year almost twice theamount he had lost in the failure of the plant-setting machine factory.The money was not invested in stock of any factory but lay in the bank.Still he was not happy. All day Jim Gibson, whom Joe had never daredtell the tales of his triumph as a workman and to who
m he did not bragas he had formerly done to his apprentices, talked of his ability to getthe best of customers. He had, he declared, managed, in the last placehe had worked before he came to Bidwell, to sell a good many sets ofharness as handmade that were in reality made in a factory. "It isn'tlike the old times," he said, "things are changing. We used to sellharness only to farmers or to teamsters right in our towns who ownedtheir own horses. We always knew the men we did business with and alwayswould know them. Now it's different. The men now, you see, who are herein this town to work--well, next month or next year they'll be somewhereelse. All they care about you and me is how much work they can get fora dollar. Of course they talk big about honesty and all that stuff, butthat's only their guff. They think maybe we'll fall for it and they'llget more for the money they pay out. That's what they're up to."
Jim tried hard to make his version of how the shop should be run clearto his employer. Every day he talked for hours regarding the matter. Hetried to get Joe to put in a stock of factory-made harness and whenhe was unsuccessful was angry. "O the devil," he cried. "Can't youunderstand what you're up against? The factories are bound to win.For why? Look here, there can't any one but some old moss-back who hasworked around horses all his life tell the difference between hand- andmachine-sewed harness. The machine-made can be sold cheaper. It looksall right and the factories are able to put on a lot of do-dads. Thatcatches the young fellows. It's good business. Quick sales and profits,that's the story." Jim laughed and then said something that made theshivers run up and down Joe's back. "If I had the money and was steadyI'd start a shop in this town and show you up," he said. "I'd prettynear run you out. The trouble with me is I wouldn't stick to businessif I had the money. I tried it once and made money; then when I got alittle ahead I shut up the shop and went on a big drunk. I was no goodfor a month. When I work for some one else I'm all right. I get drunkon Saturdays and that satisfies me. I like to work and scheme for money,but it ain't any good to me when I get it and never will be. What I wantyou to do here is to shut your eyes and give me a chance. That's all Iask. Just shut your eyes and give me a chance."
All day Joe sat astride his harness maker's horse, and when he was notat work, stared out through a dirty window into an alleyway and triedto understand Jim's idea of what a harness maker's attitude should betoward his customers, now that new times had come. He felt very old.Although Jim was as old in years lived as himself, he seemed very young.He began to be a little afraid of the man. He could not understand whythe money, nearly twenty-five hundred dollars he had put in the bankduring the two years Jim had been with him, seemed so unimportant andthe twelve hundred dollars he had earned slowly after twenty years ofwork seemed so important. As there was much repair work always waitingto be done in the shop, he did not go home to lunch, but every daycarried a few sandwiches to the shop in his pocket. At the noon hour,when Jim had gone to his boarding-house, he was alone, and if no onecame in, he was happy. It seemed to him the best time of the day.Every few minutes he went to the front door to look out. The quiet MainStreet, on which his shop had faced since he was a young man just comehome from his trade adventures, and which had always been such a sleepyplace at the noon hour in the summer, was now like a battle-field fromwhich an army had retreated. A great gash had been cut in the streetwhere the new sewer was to be laid. Swarms of workingmen, most of themstrangers, had come into Main Street from the factories by the railroadtracks. They stood in groups in lower Main Street by Wymer's tobaccostore. Some of them had gone into Ben Head's saloon for a glass of beerand came out wiping their mustaches. The men who were digging the sewer,foreign men, Italians he had heard, sat on the banks of dry earth in themiddle of the street. Their dinner pails were held between their legsand as they ate they talked in a strange language. He remembered the dayhe had come to Bidwell with his bride, the girl he had met on his tradejourney and who had waited for him until he had mastered his trade andhad a shop of his own. He had gone to New York State to get her and hadarrived back in Bidwell at noon on just such another summer day. Therehad not been many people about, but every one had known him. On thatday every one had been his friend. Birdie Spinks rushed out of his drugstore and had insisted that he and his bride go home to dinner with him.Every one had wanted them to come to his house for dinner. It had been ahappy, joyous time.
The harness maker had always been sorry his wife had borne him nochildren. He had said nothing and had always pretended he did not wantthem and now, at last, he was glad they had not come. He went back tohis bench and to work, hoping Jim would be late in getting back fromlunch. The shop was very quiet after the activity of the street thathad so bewildered him. It was, he thought, like a retreat, almost likea church when you went to the door and looked in on a week day. He haddone that once and had liked the empty silent church better than he dida church with a preacher and a lot of people in it. He had told his wifeabout the matter. "It was like the shop in the evening when I've got ajob of work done and the boy has gone home," he had said.
The harness maker looked out through the open door of his shop and sawTom Butterworth and Steve Hunter going along Main Street, engaged inearnest conversation. Steve had a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouthand Tom had on a fancy vest. He thought again of the money he had lostin the plant-setting machine venture and was furious. The noon hour wasspoiled and he was almost glad when Jim came back from his mid-day meal.
The position in which he found himself in the shop amused Jim Gibson. Hechuckled to himself as he waited on the customers who came in, and ashe worked at the bench. One day when he came back along Main Street fromthe noon meal, he decided to try an experiment. "If I lose my job whatdifference does it make?" he asked himself. He stopped at a saloon andhad a drink of whisky. When he got to the shop he began to scold hisemployer, to threaten him as though he were his apprentice. Swaggeringsuddenly in, he walked to where Joe was at work and slapped him roughlyon the back. "Come, cheer up, old daddy," he said. "Get the gloom out ofyou. I'm tired of your muttering and growling at things."
The employee stepped back and watched his employer. Had Joe ordered himout of the shop he would not have been surprised, and as he said laterwhen he told Ben Head's bartender of the incident, would not have caredvery much. The fact that he did not care, no doubt saved him. Joe wasfrightened. For just a moment he was so angry he could not speak, andthen he remembered that if Jim left him he would have to wait on tradeand would have to dicker with the strange teamsters regarding therepairing of the work harness. Bending over the bench he worked for anhour in silence. Then, instead of demanding an explanation of the rudefamiliarity with which Jim had treated him, he began to explain. "Nowlook here, Jim," he pleaded, "don't you pay any attention to me. You doas you please here. Don't you pay any attention to me."
Jim said nothing, but a smile of triumph lit up his face. Late in theafternoon he left the shop. "If any one comes in, tell them to wait. Iwon't be gone very long," he said insolently. Jim went into Ben Head'ssaloon and told the bartender how his experiment had come out. Thestory was later told from store to store up and down the Main Street ofBidwell. "He was like a boy who has been caught with his hand in the jampot," Jim explained. "I can't think what's the matter with him. Had Ibeen in his, shoes I would have kicked Jim Gibson out of the shop.He told me not to pay any attention to him and to run the shop as Ipleased. Now what do you think of that? Now what do you think of thatfor a man who owns his own shop and has money in the bank? I tell you,I don't know how it is, but I don't work for Joe any more. He works forme. Some day you come in the shop casual-like and I'll boss him aroundfor you. I'm telling you I don't know how it is that it come about, butI'm the boss of the shop as sure as the devil."
All of Bidwell was looking at itself and asking itself questions. EdHall, who had been a carpenter's apprentice earning but a few dollarsa week with his master, Ben Peeler, was now foreman in the corn-cutterfactory and received a salary of twenty-five dollars every Saturdaynight. It was more money than he had ever dreame
d of earning in a week.On pay nights he dressed himself in his Sunday clothes and had himselfshaved at Joe Trotter's barber shop. Then he went along Main Street,fingering the money in his pocket and half fearing he would suddenlyawaken and find it all a dream. He went into Wymer's tobacco store toget a cigar, and old Claude Wymer came to wait on him. On the secondSaturday evening after he got his new position, the tobacconist, arather obsequious man, called him Mr. Hall. It was the first time such athing had happened and it upset him a little. He laughed and made a jokeof it. "Don't get high and mighty," he said, and turned to wink at themen loafing in the shop. Later he thought about the matter and was sorryhe had not accepted the new title without protest. "Well, I'm foreman,and a lot of the young fellows I've always known and fooled around withwill be working under me," he told himself. "I can't be getting thickwith them."
Ed walked along the street feeling very keenly the importance of his newplace in the community. Other young fellows in the factory were gettinga dollar and a half a day. At the end of the week he got twenty-fivedollars, almost three times as much. The money was an indication ofsuperiority. There could be no doubt about that. Ever since he had beena boy he had heard older men speak respectfully of men who possessedmoney. "Get on in the world," they said to young men, when they talkedseriously. Among themselves they did not pretend that they did not wantmoney. "It's money makes the mare go," they said.
Down Main Street to the New York Central tracks Ed went, and then turnedout of the street and disappeared into the station. The evening trainhad passed and the place was deserted. He went into the dimly lightedwaiting-room. An oil lamp, turned low, and fastened by a bracket tothe wall made a little circle of light in a corner. The room was likea church in the early morning of a wintry day, cold and still. He wenthurriedly to the light, and taking the roll of money from his pocket,counted it. Then he went out of the room and along the station platformalmost to Main Street, but was not satisfied. On an impulse he returnedto the waiting room again and, late in the evening on his way home, hestopped there for a final counting of the money before he went to bed.
Peter Fry was a blacksmith and had a son who was clerk in the BidwellHotel. He was a tall young fellow with curly yellow hair and watery blueeyes and smoked cigarettes, a habit that was an offense to the nostrilsof the men of his times. His name was Jacob, but he was called inderision Fizzy Fry. The young man's mother was dead and he got his mealsat the hotel and at night slept on a cot in the hotel office. He had apassion for gayly colored neckties and waistcoats and was forever tryingunsuccessfully to attract the attention of the town girls. When heand his father met on the street, they did not speak to each other.Sometimes the father stopped and stared at his son. "How did I happen tobe the father of a thing like that?" he muttered aloud.
The blacksmith was a square-shouldered, heavily built man with a bushyblack beard and a tremendous voice. When he was a young man he sang inthe Methodist choir, but after his wife died he stopped going to churchand began putting his voice to other uses. He smoked a short clay pipethat had become black with age and that at night could not be seenagainst his black curly beard. Smoke rolled out of his mouth in cloudsand appeared to come up out of his belly. He was like a volcanicmountain and was called, by the men who loafed in Birdie Spinks' drugstore, Smoky Pete.
Smoky Pete was in more ways than one like a mountain given to eruptions.He did not get drunk, but after his wife died he got into the habit ofhaving two or three drinks of whisky every evening. The whisky inflamedhis mind and he strode up and down Main Street, ready to quarrel withany one his eye lighted upon. He got into the habit of roaring at hisfellow citizens and making ribald jokes at their expense. Every one wasa little afraid of him and he became in an odd way the guardian of thetown morals. Sandy Ferris, a house painter, became a drunkard and didnot support his family. Smoky Pete abused him in the public streetsand in the sight of all men. "You cheap thing, warming your belly withwhisky while jour children freeze, why don't you try being a man?" heshouted at the house painter, who staggered into a side street and wentto sleep off his intoxication in a stall in Clyde Neighbors' liverybarn. The blacksmith kept at the painter until the whole town took uphis cry and the saloons became ashamed to accept his custom. He wasforced to reform.
The blacksmith did not, however, discriminate in the choice of victims.His was not the spirit of the reformer. A merchant of Bidwell, who hadalways been highly respected and who was an elder in his church, wentone evening to the county seat and there got into the company of anotorious woman known throughout the county as Nell Hunter. The two wentinto a little room at the back of a saloon and were seen by two Bidwellyoung men who had gone to the county seat for an evening of adventure.When the merchant, named Pen Beck, realized he had been seen, he wasafraid the tale of his indiscretion would be carried to his home town,and left the woman to join the young men. He was not a drinking man, butbegan at once to buy drinks for his companions. The three got very drunkand drove home together late at night in a rig the young men had hiredfor the occasion from Clyde Neighbors. On the way the merchant kepttrying to explain his presence in the company of the woman. "Don'tsay anything about it," he urged. "It would be misunderstood. I have afriend whose son has been taken in by the woman. I was trying to get herto let him alone."
The two young men were delighted that they had caught the merchant offhis guard. "It's all right," they assured him. "Be a good fellow and wewon't tell your wife or the minister of your church." When they had allthe drinks they could carry, they got the merchant into the buggy andbegan to whip the horse. They had driven half way to Bidwell and all ofthem had fallen into a drunken sleep, when the horse became frightenedat something in the road and ran away. The buggy was overturned and theywere all thrown into the road. One of the young men had an arm brokenand Pen Beck's coat was almost torn in two. He paid the young man'sdoctor's bill and settled with Clyde Neighbors for the damage to thebuggy.
For a long time the story of the merchant's adventure did not leak out,and when it did, but a few intimate friends of the young men knew it.Then it reached the ears of Smoky Pete. On the day he heard it he couldhardly bear to wait until evening came. He hurried to Ben Head's saloon,had two drinks of whisky and then went to stand with the loafers beforeBirdie Spinks' drug store. At half past seven Pen Beck turned into MainStreet from Cherry Street, where he lived. When he was more than threeblocks away from the crowd of men before the drug store, Smoky Pete'sroaring voice began to question him. "Well, Penny, my lad, so you wentfor a night among the ladies?" he shouted. "You've been fooling aroundwith my girl, Nell Hunter, over at the county seat. I'd like to knowwhat you mean. You'll have to make an explanation to me."
The merchant stopped and stood on the sidewalk, unable to decide whetherto face his tormentor or flee. It was just at the quiet time of theevening when the housewives of the town had finished their evening'swork and stood resting by the kitchen doors. It seemed to Pen Beck thatSmoky Pete's voice could be heard for a mile. He decided to face it outand if necessary to fight the blacksmith. As he came hurriedly towardthe group before the drug store, Smoky Pete's voice took up the story ofthe merchant's wild night. He stepped out from the men in front of thestore and seemed to be addressing himself to the whole street. Clerks,merchants, and customers rushed out of the stores. "Well," he cried, "soyou made a night of it with my girl Nell Hunter. When you sat with herin the back room of the saloon you didn't know I was there. I was hiddenunder a table. If you'd done anything more than bite her on the neck I'dhave come out and called you to time."
Smoky Pete broke into a roaring laugh and waved his arms to the peoplegathered in the street and wondering what it was all about. It was forhim one of the really delicious spots of his life. He tried to explainto the people what he was talking about. "He was with Nell Hunter inthe back room of a saloon over at the county seat," he shouted. "EdgarDuncan and Dave Oldham saw him there. He came home with them and thehorse ran away. He didn't commit adultery. I don't want you to thinkthat
happened. All that happened was he bit my best girl, Nell Hunter,on the neck. That's what makes me so mad. I don't like to have herbitten by him. She is my girl and belongs to me."
The blacksmith, forerunner of the modern city newspaper reporter inhis love of taking the center of the stage in order to drag into publicsight the misfortunes of his fellows, did not finish his tirade. Themerchant, white with anger, rushed up and struck him a blow on the chestwith his small and rather fat fist. The blacksmith knocked him into thegutter and later, when he was arrested, went proudly off to the officeof the town mayor and paid his fine.
It was said by the enemies of Smoky Pete that he had not taken a bathfor years. He lived alone in a small frame house at the edge of town.Behind his house was a large field. The house itself was unspeakablydirty. When the factories came to town, Tom Butterworth and Steve Hunterbought the field intending to cut it into building lots. They wanted tobuy the blacksmith's house and finally did secure it by paying a highprice. He agreed to move out within a year but after the money was paidrepented and wished he had not sold. A rumor began to run about townconnecting the name of Tom Butterworth with that of Fanny Twist, thetown milliner. It was said the rich farmer had been seen coming outof her shop late at night. The blacksmith also heard another storywhispered in the streets. Louise Trucker, the farmer's daughter who hadat one time been seen creeping through a side street in the company ofyoung Steve Hunter, had gone to Cleveland and it was said she had becomethe proprietor of a prosperous house of ill fame. Steve's money, itwas declared, had been used to set her up in business. The two storiesoffered unlimited opportunity for expansion in the blacksmith's mind,but while he was preparing himself to do what he called bringing the twomen down in the sight and hearing of the whole town, a thing happenedthat upset his plans. His son Fizzy Fry left his place as clerk in thehotel and went to work in the corn-cutting machine factory. One dayhis father saw him coming from the factory at noon with a dozen otherworkmen. The young man had on overalls and smoked a pipe. When he sawhis father he stopped, and when the other men had gone on, explained hissudden transformation. "I'm in the shop now, but I won't be there long,"he said proudly. "You know Tom Butterworth stays at the hotel? Well,he's given me a chance. I got to stay in the shop for a while to learnabout things. After that I'm to have a chance as shipping clerk. ThenI'll be a traveler on the road." He looked at his father and his voicebroke. "You haven't thought very much of me, but I'm not so bad," hesaid. "I don't want to be a sissy, but I'm not very strong. I worked atthe hotel because there wasn't anything else I thought I could do."
Peter Fry went home to his house but could not eat the food he hadcooked for himself on the tiny stove in the kitchen. He went outdoorsand stood for a long time, looking out across the cow-pasture TomButterworth and Steve Hunter had bought and that they proposed shouldbecome a part of the rapidly growing city. He had himself taken no partin the new impulses that had come upon the town, except that he hadtaken advantage of the failure of the town's first industrial effortto roar insults at those of his townsmen who had lost their money. Oneevening he and Ed Hall had got into a fight about the matter on MainStreet, and the blacksmith had been compelled to pay another fine.Now he wondered what was the matter with him. He had evidently made amistake about his son. Had he made a mistake about Tom Butterworth andSteve Hunter?
The perplexed man went back to his shop and all the afternoon worked insilence. His heart had been set on the creation of a dramatic scene onMain Street, when he openly attacked the two most prominent men of thetown, and he even pictured himself as likely to be put in the town jailwhere he would have an opportunity to roar things through the ironbars at the citizens gathered in the street. In anticipation of such anevent, he had prepared himself to attack the reputation of other people.He had never attacked women but, if he were locked up, he intended to doso. John May had once told him that Tom Butterworth's daughter, who hadbeen away to college for a year, had been sent away because she wasin the family way. John May had claimed he was responsible for hercondition. Several of Tom's farm hands he said had been on intimateterms with the girl. The blacksmith had told himself that if he gotinto trouble for publicly attacking the father he would be justified intelling what he knew about the daughter.
The blacksmith did not come into Main Street that evening. As he wenthome from work he saw Tom Butterworth standing with Steve Hunter beforethe post-office. For several weeks Tom had been spending most of histime away from town, had only appeared in town for a few hours ata time, and had not been seen on the streets in the evening. Theblacksmith had been waiting to catch both men on the street at one time.Now that this opportunity had come, he began to be afraid he would notdare take it. "What right have I to spoil my boy's chances?" he askedhimself, as he went rather heavily along the street toward his ownhouse.
It rained on that evening and for the first time in years Smoky Pete didnot go into Main Street. He told himself that the rain kept him at home,but the thought did not satisfy him. All evening he moved restlesslyabout the house and at half past eight went to bed. He did not, however,sleep, but lay with his trousers on and with his pipe in his mouth,trying to think. Every few minutes he took the pipe from his mouth, blewout a cloud of smoke and swore viciously. At ten o'clock the farmer, whohad owned the cow-pasture back of his house and who still kept his cowsthere, saw his neighbor tramping about in the rain in the field andsaying things he had planned to say on Main Street in the hearing of theentire town.
The farmer also had gone to bed early, but at ten o'clock he decidedthat, as the rain continued to fall and as it was growing somewhat cold,he had better get up and let his cows into the barn. He did not dress,but threw a blanket about his shoulders and went out without a light.He let down the bars separating the field from the barnyard and then sawand heard Smoky Pete in the field. The blacksmith walked back and forthin the darkness, and as the farmer stood by the fence, began to talk ina loud voice. "Well, Tom Butterworth, you're fooling around with FannyTwist," he cried into the silence and emptiness of the night. "You'resneaking into her shop late at night, eh? Steve Hunter has set LouiseTrucker up in business in a house in Cleveland. Are you and Fanny Twistgoing to open a house here? Is that the next industrial enterprise we'reto have here in this town?"
The amazed farmer stood in the rain in the darkness, listening to thewords of his neighbor. The cows came through the gate and went into thebarn. His bare legs were cold and he drew them alternately up under theblanket. For ten minutes Peter Fry tramped up and down in the field.Once he came quite near the farmer, who drew himself down beside thefence and listened, filled with amazement and fright. He could dimly seethe tall, old man striding along and waving his arms about. When he hadsaid many bitter, hateful things regarding the two most prominent menof Bidwell, he began to abuse Tom Butterworth's daughter, calling her abitch and the daughter of a dog. The farmer waited until Smoky Petehad gone back to his house and, when he saw a light in the kitchen, andfancied he could also see his neighbor cooking food at a stove, he wentagain into his own house. He had himself never quarreled with Smoky Peteand was glad. He was glad also that the field at the back of his househad been sold. He intended to sell the rest of his farm and move west toIllinois. "The man's crazy," he told himself. "Who but a crazy man wouldtalk that way in the darkness? I suppose I ought to report him and gethim locked up, but I guess I'll forget what I heard. A man who wouldtalk like that about nice respectable people would do anything. He mightset fire to my house some night or something like that. I guess I'lljust forget what I heard."
BOOK FOUR
Poor White: A Novel Page 11
