by W. W. Jacobs
ENTRY NO. X
THE TWO GLADIATORS
There was little doing in N.O. & G. stock on Monday or Tuesday. Itdropped off a point and then recovered. I told my brokers to pick up10,000 shares at or below 65. I am confident it will strike that figurebefore the end of the week.
It was nearly five o'clock before we started up the lane towardBishop's. We were delayed half an hour waiting for Marshall, but,knowing his weakness, we fixed the time of departure half an hour soonerthan necessary.
If Marshall's hope for eternal salvation depended on applying at thepearly gates at a specified time, he would spend eternity in the otherplace on account of being thirty minutes late. Knowing this to be hishabit, we always provide against it. If the club house ever catches onfire, we shall lose Marshall, and he is a splendid good fellow.
Marshall's wife informs me it took him thirty weeks to propose after hehad made up his mind to do so, and that after the wedding day was set itwas necessary to postpone the ceremony thirty days in order to permithim to attend to some trifling business affairs. We call him "Thirty"Marshall, and it takes him thirty seconds to smile in appreciation ofthe jest. But he plays a good game of golf, with at least fourdeliberate practise swings before each stroke at the ball.
Chilvers wanted to have a team hitched up and ride over in the club bus.He said it tired him to walk. We vetoed that proposition, and Chilversstopped twice to rest on the half-mile jaunt to Bishop's.
Chilvers thinks nothing of playing twice around Woodvale, a distance ofnot less than ten miles, but when in the city he takes a cab or a streetcar when compelled to go a few blocks. When there is no ball ahead ofhim he is the most fatigued man of my acquaintance, but he can strideover golf links from daybreak until it is so dark you cannot see theball, and quit as fresh as when he started. There are others likeChilvers.
I walked with Mrs. Harding. I had a good chance to walk with MissHarding, but wished to show Carter that it was a matter of indifferenceto me. More than that, it occurred to me it was not a bad plan to becomebetter acquainted with Mrs. Harding.
The man who gets Mrs. Harding for a mother-in-law will be fortunate.None of the thrusts and jibes of the alleged funny men will apply to heras a mother-in-law.
One would not readily identify Mrs. Harding as the wife of a famousrailway magnate. Wealth certainly has not turned her motherly head. Ofcourse, she is a little woman. Huge men such as Harding invariablyselect dolls of women for helpmates. She is round, smiling, pretty, andthoughtful, and I like her immensely.
We were approaching the Bishop place. The orchard trees were coveredwith fruit. Some of the tomatoes showed the red of their fat cheeksthrough the green of their foliage. Miss Lawrence had started withLaHume, but under some pretext left him and was with Carter and MissHarding, and I doubt if Carter was pleased with that evidence of hispopularity. LaHume walked with Miss Ross and talked and laughed, but Icould see he was angry.
It suddenly occurred to me that Miss Lawrence would probably meetBishop's hired man, Wallace, and I presume LaHume was thinking of thesame thing. It was apparent they had quarrelled over something.
Marshall and Chilvers were together, their wives trailing on behind, asusual. The way these two married men neglect these lovely women makes meangry every time I am out with them, but the ladies do not seem to care,and I presume it is none of my business.
Harding walked with everybody, and was happy as a lark. He threw stonesat a telegraph pole, and was in ecstasy when a lucky shot shivered oneof the glass insulators.
"How was that for a shot, mother?" he shouted, as the glass came flyingdown. "Hav'n't hit one of those since I was fourteen years old. Say, Iwish I was fourteen years old now, barefooted, and sitting on the bankof that creek catching shiners."
"I wouldn't throw any more stones, Robert," Mrs. Harding said, layingher hand on his arm and looking up to his happy face. "The last time youthrew stones you were lame for a week, and I had to rub you witharnica."
"But think of the fun I had," he said, and then he went back and toldMarshall and Chilvers some yarn which must have been very amusing fromthe way they laughed.
I had been praising the beauties of the country around Woodmere, andasked Mrs. Harding how she liked the club house, and if she wereenjoying her summer there.
"I would enjoy it much better," she said, "if I did not know that Ishould be home."
"I presume you feel that you are neglecting your social duties," Iventured.
"Social fiddlesticks," she laughed. "I should be home canning tomatoesand putting up fruit. We won't have a thing in the house fit to eat allnext winter."
"But the servants," I began. "The servants----"
"If you knew as much about housekeeping as you do about golf," she said,"you would know that servants do not know how to preserve fruit. Lastyear I put up more than two hundred cans, and unless I can drag Mr.Harding away from here, it will be too late for everything except pearsand quinces, and he does not care much for either."
Think of the wife of a multi-millionaire standing over a hot kitchenfire and preserving tomatoes, cherries, grapes, jams, jells, and allthat kind of thing! I did not exactly know how to sympathise with her.
"It is nice down here," she said, after a pause, "but there's nothing todo."
"The drives are splendid," I said, "and I'm sure you would becomeinterested in golf or tennis if you took them up."
"I mean that there's no work to do," she said. "I nearly had a row withmy husband before he would let me darn his socks. He does not know it,but I keep the maid out of our rooms so that I can do the work myself.It's awful to sit around all day with nothing to do but read and dofancy work. I hate fancy work. If you have any socks which need darning,Mr. Smith, I wish you would let me have them."
We both laughed, but she was in earnest and made me promise I would turnover to her any socks which show signs of wear. I shall keep them as amemento.
That is the kind of a woman I should like for a mother-in-law.
And the more I see of Mr. Harding the better I like him. But I mustrecord the many things which happened that afternoon and evening atBishop's.
The fine old farmhouse is ideally located on a rising slope of ground.It is surrounded with the most beautiful grove of horse-chestnut treesin this section of the country.
The house is more than a hundred years old, and Bishop has the sensenot to attempt an improvement in its exterior architecture. When a boy Ispent most of my spare time in and around the Bishop house. Joe Bishopand I were chums, but when I went away to college, Joe wandered outWest, and it is years since I have seen him. I have often thought that Imust have been an awful source of bother to the Bishops, but they neverseemed to mind it much. All of their children are grown up and married,but here the old folks are, working away as hard as when I was a child.
I suppose James Bishop is about Mr. Harding's age, somewhere betweenfifty and fifty-five. He in no way resembles the farmer of the cartoons.He wears a stubby moustache, and looks more the prosperous horseman thanthe typical farmer. He is a big man, a trifle taller than Mr. Harding,but not so broad of shoulder. Either of them would tip the beam at 230pounds.
Bishop was at the gate waiting for us, and back of him two good-natureddogs bayed a noisy welcome.
"Come right in," he said, shaking hands with Harding. "If I'd known thatyou had to walk I'd hitched up a rig and come after ye. This is Mrs.Harding, I reckon," he said, grasping that lady's hand. "Glad to meetye, Mrs. Harding! I knowed that thar husband of your'n when he wasn'tbigger nor a pint of cider."
"At the gate waiting for us"]
"Robert has often spoken of you, Mr. Bishop," said that lady. "How isMrs. Bishop?"
"She's well; first-rate, thank ye. Come right in and we'll hunt herup," he said, leading the way. "I suppose she's puttering around in thekitchen."
I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Bishop through the window. She was hurriedlyshedding a large calico apron, and met us as we were on the steps of theveranda. A woman train
ed in the conventionalities of society could nothave conducted herself better than did this American wife of an Americanfarmer, and I was proud of her as if she had been my own mother. She hadthe rare tact of making her guests feel perfectly at home.
Bishop had disappeared, but soon returned with an enormous glass pitcherand a tray of glasses.
"Here's some new sweet cider for the ladies," he said, pouring out aglass and handing it to Mrs. Harding. "Pressed it out this afternoon,and picked out the apples myself. Try some, Miss Harding. Here's a glassfor you, Miss----, blamed if I hav'n't forgot your name already,"proffering a glass to Miss Lawrence, "but we don't mind a little thinglike that, do we."
"Indeed we do not," laughed Miss Lawrence.
"How about this?" demanded Chilvers. "What was that you said about ciderfor the ladies? My friend Marshall is dying for a drink, and my throatis as dusty as his boots. Do we walk two miles and then choke to death?We don't want to lose Marshall like this."
"You hold your horses a minute," grinned Bishop. "The ladies like sweetcider, God bless 'em, and I made this for them. If any of you fellowswould like to try some real cider, the best that ever was raised in thisState, come on and follow me. I reckon the ladies have seen all theywant to of you for a while. Come on; I'll show you some cider that iscider."
He led us around the house until he came to a cellar door, which hethrew back and we followed him. When our eyes became accustomed to thedim light we saw long rows of huge casks, mounted on frames so that thespigots were eighteen inches from the floor. The air was deliciouslycool. It was permeated with the subtle odour of apple juice longconfined in wood. Films of cobwebs softened the sharp lines of the caskheads and faintly gleamed between the rafters where the light struckthem.
"Here's cider that is cider!" declared Bishop, proudly tapping on theheads of the great casks as he led the way into the darker recesses ofthe cellar. "I reckon, Bob," he said to Harding, "that it's a long timesince you've had a chance to try a swig of real old Down East hardcider."
"It's been a long time, Jim," admitted Harding. "How old is this?"
"I've put in a cask every year since I took the place," he replied, "andthat's more'n thirty years ago, and not a cask here but has cider init."
"Cider thirty years old!" exclaimed Chilvers. "You mean vinegar, don'tyou?"
"I said cider, young man; an' when I say cider I mean cider," retortedBishop, rather indignantly. "It is no more vinegar than brandy'svinegar, nor champagne's vinegar. Now, I don't reckon none of you,barring my old friend John Harding, here, ever tasted a drop of realhard cider. Oh, yes, Smith has, of course; but how about the rest ofye?"
Carter, LaHume, Marshall, and Chilvers admitted that their idea of hardcider was a beverage which had started to ferment.
Bishop placed his hand reverently on a blackened, time-charred cask. Itwas evident he was as proud of that possession as others might be of anauthenticated Raphael.
"I don't tap this here very often," he said, "but in honour of thisoccasion I'll let it run a bit. This here cider is fifty years old!"
He drew off a pint or so in a stone jug, and we went out into the lightto examine it. It was almost colourless, slightly amber in shade, if anytint can describe it. I had seen that sacred cask when a boy, and Irecall now that Joe Bishop did not dare touch it, and there were fewthings of which he was afraid.
We all solemnly sampled it from small glasses, which Bishop producedfrom some mysterious hiding place.
"There is no taste to it," declared Chilvers. "It's smooth as oil, butit has no flavour."
"Hasn't, eh?" smiled Bishop. "You just wait a minute and you'll get thebouquet--as you wine experts call it. It's one of these coming tastes,but when it hits you you cry for more."
It was as the farmer said. There came to our palates the subtlegustatory perfume of apple blossoms. Within the old cask there had beenstored the fragrance and the spell of the orchard of half a centuryagone. It was the wine of the apple; the favoured fruit of the gods.
"Is it supposed to be intoxicating?" asked Marshall. Bishop laugheduproariously, and Harding joined in his merriment.
"My boy," Bishop said, "it's as intoxicating as the feel of yoursweetheart's cheek against your own, only it affects you in a differentway. I've known a man to fill up on that smooth-tastin' and innocentlookin' stuff an' not come tew until he was on shipboard, an' half wayto Cape Horn. Under its influence the secretary of a peace society wouldtackle the Japanese navy in a rowboat. From what I know about mythologyI'm sure Mars drank it regular."
Our host drew a generous allowance from a cask containing a more recentvintage, and led the way from out the old cellar to seats beneath thetrees facing the smooth turf of an unused croquet ground.
LaHume wandered away in search of the ladies, whose laughter and chatterfrom the near-by veranda proved they were cheerfully enduring hisabsence. I caught a glimpse of Wallace as he drove the cows into the oldbarn, and wondered if LaHume seriously considered the "hired man" as arival.
We filled our pipes and lay back in the comfortable seats, content tolisten to the music of the birds overhead, and follow aimlessly theconversation between Bishop and Harding. The cider from the sacred caskhad bridged the years which separated them from boyhood days back inBuckfield, Maine.
The old grindstone reminded Harding of an incident, to the telling ofwhich both contributed details. They told of swimming exploits; of howthey helped lock the school teacher out of the little red building whichseemed to them a prison; they told of blood-curdling feats of coastingand of skating on thin ice, and of other things more or less distorted,perhaps, when seen through the haze of forty years.
Then they told of the boys they had "licked," and of the boys who hadwhipped them, also of the feud between the lads of Buckfield and Sumnerand the desperate encounters which resulted from it.
"Do you remember, Bob," asked Bishop, after a moment's pause, "of that'rasslin' match we had on the floor of your dad's barn?"
"The time I got a black eye, and you lost part of your ear?" askedHarding, his eyes brightening at thought of it.
"That's the time," declared Bishop. "I tore your clothes most topieces."
"I don't remember about that," responded the railroad magnate, "but Ido remember that I flopped you three times out of five."
"Three times outer nothin'!" exclaimed the farmer. "I put you down fairand square three times running, Bob, and if you'll stop and think aminute you'll recollect it."
"Recollect nothing!" defiantly laughed Harding. "You never saw the dayin your life, when you or any boy in Buckfield could put my shoulders tothe ground three times running. You're losing your memory, Jim."
"I did it all right."
"I say you didn't!"
"And I can do it again!"
"You can, eh?" shouted Harding, springing to his feet and pulling offhis coat. "We'll mighty quick see if you can! I'll tackle you right hereon this croquet ground!"
"Side holt, square holt, or catch-as-catch-can?" asked Bishop, castingone anxious look towards the house.
"We always rassled catch-as-catch-can, and you know it," declaredHarding. "I suppose you think just because I do nothing but buildrailroads and things that I've grown effeminate since you tackled me thelast time. Come on; I'll show you!"
"I'm afraid I'll hurt you, Bob," said Bishop, and I could see that hehonestly meant it. "I've been outer doors all my life, an' you'vebeen----"
"I suppose you think I've been in an incubator, don't ye?" snortedHarding. "Don't weaken! Don't be a coward, Jim! There's the line; toeit!" and he marked a crease in the soft turf.
"You bet I'll toe it!" growled the now irate farmer. "And don't whimperif I break a bone or two when I flop ye!"
As Bishop threw his cap to the ground and rushed toward the defiantmillionaire Carter saw fit to interfere.
"Don't do this," he protested, jumping between them. "One of you willget hurt! It's dangerous for men of your age to wrestle!"
Both of them reached
out and brushed Carter away, and the next instantthey were at it.
Bishop ducked and got an underhold, and I was sure Harding would godown, but he braced himself with his huge legs, and with the strength ofa giant broke the clasp of his opponent's arms. It takes skill as wellas muscle to do this, and I saw at a glance that Harding had notforgotten the tricks of his boyhood. As Bishop spun half-way around theother caught him at a disadvantage, raised him clear from the turf anddashed him down, falling with all his weight upon him.
It was as clean and quick a fall as I have seen, but for a second myheart stood still, fearing Bishop's neck had been broken. He gasped onceor twice, and then I heard a muffled laugh.
"Let me up, Bob; that's one for you!" he said, and both struggled totheir feet. There was a rent in the right knee of Harding's trousers,and his shirt was a sight, but he neither knew of this nor would havecared for it.
"Not quite so soft and easy as you thought I was eh, Jim?" he panted,extending his hand. "You got the holt all right, but you wasn't quickenough."
"I held you too cheap that time," admitted Bishop, rather sheepishly,throwing away a pair of ruined suspenders, "but I'll get you this time.Come on, Bob!"
"You referee this match, Smith!" said Harding, standing on guard. "Youknow the rules. No fall unless both shoulders and one hip is down."
Misfortune had taught Bishop caution. I could see he feared Harding'senormous strength and that he aimed to wind him if possible. He managedto elude the grasp of his antagonist for probably a minute, and more byluck than skill fell on top when the end of the clinch came. But Hardingwas not down by any means, and there then ensued a struggle which mademe oblivious to all surroundings.
Though I was the referee I was "rooting" for Harding, and so was Carter,while Marshall and Chilvers were giving mental and vocal encouragementto Bishop. I do not suppose any of us realised we were saying a word.
First Harding would have a slight advantage, and then the tide wouldturn in favour of Bishop. The latter was more agile, but the formeroutclassed him in power. They writhed along that croquet ground like twogigantic tumble-bugs locked in a life and death struggle. Neither said aword, and both were absolutely fair in attack and defense. As thestruggle continued it seemed to me that Harding was weakening, but hetold me later he was merely resting for the effort which would insurehim victory.
I heard the swish of skirts, the frightened cry of female voices, andthe next instant two most estimable ladies invaded the improvised ringand laid hands on the principals.
I doubt if the combined physical exertion of Mrs. Bishop and Mrs.Harding could have made the slightest impress on the embrace which heldtheir lords and masters, but what they said had a magical andpeacemaking effect.
"James Bishop, you should be ashamed of yourself!" exclaimed Mrs.Bishop, tugging at the remnant of a shirt, which promptly detacheditself from the general wreck.
"We're not fighting, my dear!"]
"Robert Harding, what do you mean by fighting?" gasped Mrs. Harding,tugging at his undershirt, the outer garment long since having lost itsentity.
Instantly they relaxed their holds, rolled over and came to a sittingposture, facing each other and their respective wives. It was as if theact had carefully been rehearsed, and was ludicrous beyond anydescription at my command.
Their glances rested for an instant on one another, and then on theirfrightened and indignant helpmates. Their attitude was that of twoschoolboys detected by their teachers in some forbidden act. I am sureHarding would have spoken sooner if he could have recovered his breath.
"We're not fighting, my dear!" he managed to say. "Are we, Jim?" headded with a mighty effort.
"Of course not," declared Bishop, gouging a piece of turf from his eye."We're only rasslin'; that's all, isn't it, Bob?"
"And you in your best suit of clothes, James Bishop!" exclaimed his goodwife.
"You should see how you look, Mr. Harding," added his better half withjustifiable emphasis. "Are you hurt?" anger changing to solicitude.
"Of course I'm not hurt," he asserted. "We were only fooling. Where inthunder is my shirt?"
And then Chilvers and Carter and Marshall and I exploded. It was not adignified thing to do, and I apologised to both of the ladies afterward,but we fell down on that mutilated croquet-ground and laughed untilexhausted. I am glad Miss Harding and the others were not there.
Assisted by their wives the two gladiators had struggled to their feet,but the most cursory inspection disclosed that they were morepresentable when on the ground. And then the ladies joined in the laugh.
"Jack," said Mr. Bishop, who has called me by that nickname since I wasseven years old, "Jack, go out to the old barn and get a pair of horseblankets. You know where I keep them."
"You've got a great head on you, Jim," roared Harding. "I was thinkingof a pair of barrels."
When I returned with the red and yellow blankets the ladies haddisappeared.
"Never mind sending down to the club for your other clothes," Bishop wassaying. "I've got several suits, such as they are, and I reckon one ofthem will fit ye."
"This blanket is pretty good," declared the magnate. "Say, Jim, what wasit you said about that fifty-year-old cider?"
"I'm glad I didn't give you any more of it; I'd lost my life as well asmy clothes," declared the farmer. "If they'd stayed away 'nother minuteor so I'd won that second fall, sure as sin, Bob," he said, ratherruefully, as we wrapped the blanket around him.
"You just think you would," grinned Harding, lifting up the blanket soas to keep from stumbling over it. "Say, it must be tough to have towear skirts all the time. Be a good fellow, Smith, and hold up mytrain."
They tried to sneak in at the back entrance, but Miss Harding and theothers saw them and headed them off. I shall never forget their looks ofamazement, and then the screams of laughter which followed the hurriedexplanation.
I must postpone an account of the dinner and the dance until the nextentry.
"It must be tough to have to wear skirts all the time"]
