Fiddler's Green, Or a Wedding, a Ball, and the Singular Adventures of Sundry Moss

by Van Reid

  “I am amazed!” said Maven.

  “He was sneaking through the garden,” explained Sundry, “past the kitchen window, and she thought he was a woodchuck. You can’t get caught giving a May basket.” They all understood the magical properties of the May basket and how easily its purpose might be frustrated by improper delivery.

  “And she shot him?” said Betty again.

  Horace let out a wheezing laugh.

  “It’s not a common form of courtship,” said Mister Walton.

  “She was sort of sorry, afterward,” admitted Sundry.

  “And then she married him?” said Minerva.

  “He was crawling on his hands and knees when she looked out and saw the irises swaying. So she more or less caught him in the end that was, just then, uppermost.”

  “Who would have thought?” said Maven.

  “I always thought the way to a man’s heart was his stomach,” said Mrs. Spark, which caused Horace to laugh himself into a coughing fit again.

  “But they went and married each other?” said Betty, who was almost as astonished as Maven.

  “She was startled, I think, when he came bolting out of the flowers,” said Sundry. “They caught him down the road half a mile or so, she and her brother, and brought him back to the house and got the buckshot out of him. Considering the exact target of her aim, she thought she knew him pretty intimately, so marriage wasn’t such a rash thing.”

  The Spark daughters looked both scandalized and amused. Mrs. Spark shook her head.

  “That May basket did its work,” said a pleased Mister Walton.

  “My cousin always says it did, but he thinks the means were a little fierce. But here are the Baffins.”

  “Toby, Toby!” declared Lucinda Baffin when Sundry had let her and her husband Cedric in. Her sweet old face lit up at the sight of Mister Walton in the midst of the crowded kitchen. “Good heavens! What a day to sleep in!” It was now all of a few minutes before seven, and the elderly Baffins had probably been up for an hour or more. Mrs. Baffin squeezed Sundry’s hand when he took her coat. “The two of us slept as if there weren’t a thing to do. Good morning, good morning,” she said to everyone, the burr of her Nova Scotian childhood evident in her voice. “We haven’t had a crowd in the kitchen for years.”

  Mrs. Spark heard this distinct note, announced that her own mother’s people were from Beaver Bank, and they greeted each other like long lost kin.

  “Oh, my!” said Maven. He was looking into his mug of coffee and seemed astounded that it was empty. There was a rap at the front door, and he looked up as if this were too much to believe. “I am amazed!” he said, and there did seem to be a lot of traffic that morning.

  4. Varied Species of Chickens Came Home to Roost

  The man at the front door held a round brown hat to the breast of his checked jacket and with his other hand gripped the handle of a carpet sweeper. He was clean-shaven, and the smell of a fruity pomade in his coal black hair wafted in with the ocean breeze. “Good day to you, sir!” he declared, revealing with his smile a wide part between his upper front teeth. “I trust I haven’t shifted you from your breakfast this fine morning!”

  “Not yet,” said Sundry.

  “Is the missus in?” wondered the man.

  “Not yet,” said Sundry.

  A frown barely flickered across the drummer’s face. “I rarely pay a call so early, but I saw some traffic on its way through your yard—”

  “It’s really not a good day—” began Sundry.

  “I won’t take but a minute of your time,” said the man. He perched his hat on his head and offered his hand. “My name is Felton P. Deltwire, sir, and here I have the ultimate expression of housecleaning ingenuity—the Artemis and Atlanta Company’s Queen of the Carpet Sweepers!”

  Sundry was not very fond of dealing with traveling salesmen on a typical day, but he allowed his hand to be shaken and waited for a moment to put in a word.

  That moment did not immediately avail itself. “More than likely, sir,” continued the drummer, “the lady of the house has some such device right now! occupying a pantry closet, but I guarantee that if it isn’t a genuine! Queen of the Carpet Sweepers! it hasn’t the double-patented contracirculatory bristle action or the unique compartmental reservoir—patent pending—designed to separate mistakenly swept valuables from the collected dirt.”

  The single minute that Mr. Deltwire had promised to expend was more figurative than actual; very quickly it was gone, but even as another was ventured, Sundry’s rescue unexpectedly revealed itself upon the sidewalk.

  “Now you may look at this mechanism, sir, and wonder—and rightly wonder—how the lady of the house is to get it under the dining room sideboard, the escritoire, or the upright piano—”

  Three well-turned-out gentlemen stood by the gate and peered down the walk with amiable curiosity. Sundry exchanged a wave of the hand with them.

  “The primary mechanism is, of course, too large to find its way beneath such furnishings—”

  It was the Moosepath League, and as was so often the case, it had arrived in the veritable nick of time. Sundry again waved a hand over the drummer’s head.

  “And that is why we have contrived for the Queen of the Carpet Sweepers what is called, in carpet-sweeping parlance, an attachment! and which I hold before you—”

  “Gentlemen,” pronounced Sundry with more ceremony than was his habit, including the approaching members of the club in a formal and declarative introduction. “Mr. Deltwire,” he said. “Allow me to present Mr. Ephram, Mr. Eagleton, and Mr. Thump. Sirs, this is Felton P. Deltwire and his Queen of the Carpet Sweepers”

  The tall, blond Christopher Eagleton hurried up the walk to shake Felton Deltwire’s hand, saying, “Very pleased! Clouds scattering before a southwest wind, expected sunny this afternoon.”

  “Yes, it is a nice day,” said Felton P. Deltwire.

  “Hmmm!” said the broad-bearded Joseph Thump, who quickly mounted the steps. “High tide at 1:48.” He took a turn at agitating the drummer’s hand, “P.M.,” he added.

  “I’m glad to be informed,” said Felton P. Deltwire.

  “It’s five minutes past the hour of seven,” pronounced the darkly mustached Matthew Ephram, close upon the heels of his fellows and consulting one of his three or four watches even as he took Felton P. Deltwire’s hand.

  “The sun and Saturn will find themselves in opposition by tomorrow morning,” replied Felton P. Deltwire. “The moon reaches apogee by Saturday, setting in conjunction with Mars on Wednesday next.”

  “I never knew!” said Eagleton.

  “How marvelous!” said Ephram.

  “Hmmm?” said Thump.

  “Felton P. Deltwire,” said the drummer. He raised his hat, returned it to his head, and offered his hand again.

  “Matthew Ephram,” said that worthy as he reapplied his hand to Felton P. Deltwire’s. “Apogee, you say.”

  “Christopher Eagleton,” said the next in line, and he likewise greeted the man a second time. “And the sun in opposition. I hadn’t realized.”

  “Joseph Thump,” said the third Moosepathian, who likewise agitated the salesman’s hand once more. “Of the Exeter Thumps.”

  “Pleased,” said Felton P. Deltwire. “Very pleased. You gentlemen look ready for anything this morning.”

  This observation surprised the members of the club, and they looked at themselves and one another with abrupt concern.

  “As I have been trying to tell you, Mr. Deltwire,” said Sundry, “there’s to be a wedding here today, and we will not be able to consider your fine carpet sweeper.”

  “Is this the very item?” wondered Eagleton, appraising the long-handled instrument in Felton P. Deltwire’s grip.

  “By opposition,” Ephram said, “do you mean that Saturn will be on the other side of the earth from the sun?”

  “Mister Walton is in the kitchen,” announced Sundry.

  “Hmmm?” said Thump.


  “My word, how very nice!” said Eagleton. “You must meet our chairman,” he announced to the drummer, which was not exactly what Sundry had in mind.

  “And how is Mister Walton this morning?” said Ephram to Sundry.

  “Holding steady,” said Sundry.

  One could not fault Mister Walton’s confusion (or anyone else’s) when the gentlemen of the club arrived at the same moment as Mr. Felton P. Deltwire. These four men entered the kitchen in concert (with Sundry bringing up the rear), and between the drummer’s practiced art of familiarity and the Moosepath League’s inherent warmth they appeared like old comrades. “A man for our membership,” Eagleton was saying to Ephram, and this, too, might have signified to those in the kitchen that the Moosepathians had known Felton P. Deltwire for more than the time it took to travel the front hall.

  The gentlemen of the club were gratified to see Mrs. Spark and her pretty daughters, and they appeared almost Maven Flyce-like in their degree of astonishment when they discovered that cowlicked individual and Horace McQuinn in Mister Walton’s kitchen. It was a crowd, to be sure, and that is no doubt why Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump knocked one another’s hats from their respective hands as they synchronistically bowed to the women, and after they had begged one another’s pardon, it was perhaps why there was a loud thock when, as with one thought, they bent to retrieve their brand-new toppers.

  No one said, “Ouch!” (the members of the club suspected this interjection to be a small bit unrefined), but Thump in particular seemed startled by the chance impact, and Mister Walton insisted on giving the stricken man his seat.

  “Well, I never, Hod!” Maven was saying.

  “Not here, you haven’t,” agreed Horace.

  There was some avid handshaking as the members of the club, emotional with the day’s significance, introduced Mr. Deltwire to the assemblage like a long-lost cousin. The chairman beamed with pleasure.

  “You dear men,” Mrs. Baffin was saying to Eagleton, who blushed, then almost gasped as she reached up to pat his cheek.

  The drummer closed in on Mrs. Spark, saying, “The lady of the house?”

  Mabel Spark was no more susceptible to a salesman’s flattery than to Horace McQuinn’s wisdom. “You get away from my cake with that thing!” she demanded, shaking a spatula at the Queen of the Carpet Sweepers. Felton P. Deltwire displayed excellent discretion by making a short retreat. The kitchen had grown as loud as it was crowded, so that it was difficult, at first, to hear yet another knock at the front door, but Mister Walton let out a short laugh when he did hear it. Sundry raised an eyebrow.

  “My word! Who could that be now?” said Mrs. Baffin.

  “I’ll get it,” said Mr. Baffin.

  But Sundry was up and accustomed to it by now; he gave a nod and made the trip back through pantry and hall. There was another knock before he opened the front door to reveal a policeman on the step.

  “Calvin Drum,” said the constable, his hat in hand.

  “Officer,” said Sundry.

  “That rig,” said the policeman. He pointed down the street. “That wagon. Does it belong here?”

  “For the moment it does,” said Sundry.

  “Oh,” said the officer. “You see, I saw it once, last year.”

  “You say you saw it?” said Sundry.

  “I say I saw it, you see.”

  “So you said,” said Sundry. “I see.”

  The officer looked the slightest bit curt. “Well, I did,” he said. “The horse is darker than I remembered, but I couldn’t mistake her. Last year—oh, closer to July, I think it was—I spotted a wagon just like it with a suspicious load of kegs—”

  “Didn’t you speak to the driver?” wondered Sundry. The scenario painted by the policeman had an oddly familiar ring to him.

  “Well, I did,” said the man again. “And he just whipped up the horse and bolted. I never did catch him, being on foot, but he went like Absalom’s mule down through town without a thought for cross traffic. Had his hat pulled down so I couldn’t see him proper.” Clearly the memory galled him.

  It was a coincidence that three principals of that remembered event were that morning within hailing distance of one another. The man with the runaway wagon (the horse had actually taken off of its own resolve) was in fact ambling up the hall even as Sundry and the policeman were speaking.

  “Good morning, Officer,” said Mister Walton, and as he recognized the policeman, his expression altered just a whit. “Is there a problem?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” said the man.

  “Constable Drum is concerned about the wagon,” said Sundry.

  “The wagon?” Mister Walton leaned from the doorway. “Horace’s wagon?” His memory of his unintentional involvement with Horace Mc-Quinn’s rum-running continued to set in his mind, and his voice trailed off to a whisper.

  “What’s that?” snapped Officer Drum. “Horace? Just as I surmised.”

  “He brought the Sparks over this morning,” said Mister Walton.

  “Sparks? Which Sparks? Horace who? The Thaddeus Sparks?” He may have realized that this sounded more demanding than courteous, and he altered his bearing before saying, more slowly, “Horace, you say?”

  “How’s business, Calvin?” came an amused chortle from the hall.

  “McQuinn!” said the policeman. He narrowed his gaze past Mister Walton as he attempted to reconcile the presence of Horace McQuinn at this respectable home. Then he said, “Thaddeus?” and finally, “Mr. Thump!”, for the Moosepathians had left the kitchen to see what was about, and by further coincidence Mr. Thump (who looked so much like Thaddeus Spark) had rescued Officer Drum from certain injury and possible death less than a week before.

  “Is that Calvin Drum?” Mrs. Spark called from the kitchen, but this was not enough of a crowd, it seemed, for the day provided a second wagon, which was just then pulling up behind Horace’s.

  “Is this the Walton residence?” called the driver.

  “Walton?” said the policeman.

  “Mister Walton is our chairman, Officer Drum,” informed Thump.

  “Ah, the Moosepath League! It’s good to see you again, Mr. Thump.”

  “I’ll need some help lugging this contraption,” shouted the driver.

  “It’s Phileda’s organ,” said Mister Walton.

  “Organ?” said the policeman.

  “For the wedding,” said Sundry. It seemed a good moment to add something to the expanding glomeration of words.

  “Horace?” said Officer Drum again. The notion of a wedding made the rascal’s presence only the more peculiar.

  “I stopped by in case the preacher doesn’t show up,” offered Horace.

  Mister Walton chuckled.

  From behind Horace, a voice said, “I am amazed!”

  “Feeling your oats?” wondered Sundry of Officer Drum. He hooked a thumb in the direction of the newly arrived wagon.

  The policeman returned his hat to its perch. “An organ, you say.”

  “Don’t be hurting yourself, now,” drawled Horace solicitously.

  Sundry and Officer Drum climbed into the back of the wagon to unlash the organ, and with the assistance of the Moosepath League, they lifted it down to the sidewalk. Standing nearby and looking as if he might help if Sundry would let him, Mister Walton said, “It’s going in the parlor. It’s very good of you.” Several neighbors were watching from their lawns, and he waved to them.

  Sundry was securing his grip on the organ when he caught sight of still another member of society making his way up the street and necessitating a chapter all his own.

  5. Tke Unpredicted Storm

  Sundry sensed trouble immediately. No one who has anything happy to convey stalks the sidewalk with such solitary confidence coupled with a hard-eyed (even grim) focus upon his goal. The man was tall and broadshouldered and with a great mane of gray hair. He strode toward Mister Walton’s gate with the appearance of someone who is unaware of the people he passes, or at least
that he believes himself above any interest in them. One of Mister Walton’s neighbors wished him good day, but the gray-maned man did not reply.

  “There’ll be dancing this afternoon,” Horace McQuinn announced with a lingering look of wisdom toward the members of the club.

  “Oh, my!” said Eagleton. He and his fellows exchanged looks of alarm just as the voice of Mister Walton was lifted in recitation.

  Everyone paused while this bit of lyric was recited. Mister Walton smiled, the smallest bit of wry warning to his friends. “I heard it from an uncle years ago,” he explained.

  “That’s a good one,” said Horace McQuinn, who was known for his own abilities in the way of verse.

  Sundry glanced back at the approaching figure. The tall man had halted some yards away and looked as if he were growing angry simply watching the gathering ahead of him. “Muckle on,” said Sundry, hoping to get them all out of the path of this discordant note before it arrived. Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump were not very familiar with muckling on, and they had been startled by Mister Walton’s poem, so they did not immediately fall to.

  “That’s right,” Officer Drum was saying to Mister Walton. “You’re getting married!” He seemed to have forgotten Horace’s wagon. “I met my wife at a wedding,” he admitted. “Danced all night with her.”

  “Oh, my!” said Eagleton again.

  “I suppose we should have invited some extra ladies,” said Mister Walton without a smile, but with mischief in his eye.

  “I hear Mrs. Roberto’s in town,” said Horace quietly.

  For some reason Thump went into a fit of coughing.

  “Are you all right?” asked Officer Drum.

  Thump nodded vehemently, dragged in a ragged breath, and coughed again. Ephram and Eagleton leaned forward, as if their collective proximity might alleviate his sudden affliction.

  “Oh, dear,” said Mister Walton.

  Officer Drum noticed a cloud cross Sundry’s expression and followed the young man’s gaze to the lionesque man approaching Mister Walton.

  Ephram gave Thump’s back some experimental taps.