Mrs. Roberto - Or the Widowy Worries of the Moosepath League

by Van Reid

  42. Angels Unaware

  Thump peered out the window of the Pullman car, but he could see nothing of the battalion that presumably accompanied them. Ephram and Eagleton also kept their eyes upon the passing landscape. They had seen Mr. Pfelt waving from a siding as the train left the station and they wondered if he had changed his mind. Thump watched from his window seat, pressing his face against the glass, till the train went round a corner and Big Eye’s cheery face and the dog on his shoulder disappeared.

  “They were very enthusiastic,” said Eagleton. He rather liked the idea of having the hoboes along as he imagined them to be capable when it came to practical matters. “But I am a little concerned about Mr. Po,” he admitted.

  Ephram nodded. He wondered himself what the elderly fellow had done to run afoul of the law.

  “That goat he claimed wasn’t his must have caused some destruction.”

  “He is perhaps a victim in the fashion of Mrs. Roberto.”

  Eagleton ruminated upon another mystery. “I was puzzled about what Mr. Pfelt meant concerning Mr. Po and the ladies.”

  “Yes,” said Ephram. “That was odd. What do you think, Thump?

  Thump’s stomach growled, which mechanistic signal could be heard above the general noise of the train and its inhabitants. Ephram had been ready to suggest that they withdraw to the dining car, but now he waited a polite interval before forwarding this motion.

  The food served on the train was unremarkable, though much appreciated by the hungry members. Thump had fallen into a funk as the day progressed, but onion soup and oyster crackers, potted beef and potatoes and carrots, sourdough rolls, corned hake and potatoes with pork scraps (the crowning achievement of the railroad cook), another roll or two, and apple pie with cheese, all washed down with tea that was more hot than flavorful, lifted him considerably, so that he was filled with purpose rather than distress.

  The meal occupied a large portion of their journey that might otherwise have been consumed with worry and perplexity; they sat down to their first course while changing engines at Northern Maine Junction, and pushed the last demolished plate of apple pie away from them as they pulled into Ducktrap Station. Their journey back to Wiscasset was almost half done and, as they did not smoke or chew tobacco, they passed through the car set aside for those practices and found their seats.

  Occasionally, one of them peered out a window or wandered to the end of the car and looked out the rear door, but there was no sign of the hoboes.

  “I believe they may have taken another train,” said Eagleton as they pulled out of Rockport. The three friends found it hard to credit that the hoboes had actually joined them, and, while the coastline swept past, they meditated on the events of the day and compared their impressions, though it seemed that the memory ofJasper Packet, Big Eye Pfelt, and the hobo village would vanish beneath arduous consideration like a pipe dream.

  They had very nearly thought the hoboes out of existence when the 5:35 pulled into Wiscasset Station, and it was time to convert the next portion of their plan into deed. They stepped onto the platform, feeling strangely unencumbered, a presentiment that had been growing in them since morning; they had never traveled so far without bags and certainly Ephram and Eagleton were not used to being seen in public without their hats. Thump had grown used to Thaddeus Spark’s clothes by now and rather forgot that they weren’t his own till he chanced to see himself in a mirror at the Wiscasset station house.

  It was an admirable spring day with the hint of summer to come. The Sheepscott River that they had known in darker moods flowed amicably past, and the groves on the opposite shore, in Edgecomb, where they had experienced the crisis to one of their greatest adventures, looked tranquil and inviting. The gravity of their present mission, however, not to mention its admittedly nebulous quality, commanded the greater portion of their minds.

  “Mr. Pfelt was of the opinion,” said Eagleton, “that we should reach Dresden by way of Head Tide on the narrow-gauge railroad.” They walked through the station house and looked up at the ranks of houses, the moderate traffic, and the greening tops of oak and elm and chestnut rustling along Wiscasset’s narrow streets.

  “Look!” said Thump, indicating the southern terminus of the Wiscasset, Waterville, and Farmington Railroad (the narrow-gauge of which they had been informed). Several men were darting among the cars and buildings, but before Ephram and Eagleton could heed Thump’s directive these runners disappeared among the clutter of the freight yard. Then, just as Thump had opened his mouth to explain, another swarm of men appeared further up the tracks, like rabbits between hiding places.

  “Good heavens!” said Eagleton.

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, my friend,” agreed Ephram.

  On the other side of the W. W. & F. station house, an engine backed along the two-foot track, its rear couplings reaching for a line of passenger and freight cars.

  “That is, perhaps, the very train we seek,” said Ephram.

  “The air is very still,” said Eagleton while they hastened from one station house to the next. “Conditions were expected to remain fair, but, alas, I am not privy to the day’s forecast. I can’t help but suspicion that the outlook has shifted.”

  “High tide at 10:03,” stated Thump authoritatively. “That is the case in Portland, of course. Adjustments must be made for our present whereabouts.”

  “It’s eighteen minutes before the hour of six,” said Ephram, referring to one of his watches as he hurried alongside.

  They had never traveled by narrow-gauge, but they were delighted with the miniature appearance of the engine and its attendant cars; the W. W. & F. was something of a dog cart to the Maine Central Railroad’s horse-drawn wagon, but the train itself was handsome and pleasantly run. The cars were finished inside with darkly stained wood and had the ambience, not to mention width, of a fancy carriage. Before they were able to board, however, they were accosted by Big Eye Pfelt, who came bounding out from behind a freight car with his little dog close behind.

  Ephram bowed in lieu of tipping his missing hat. “How gratifying to see you, sir,” he said. “We were half convinced that you and your fellows had changed your minds.”

  “Not a bit of it,” averred the hobo. “But we mightn’t go much further, or not very quickly, from here on in.” He nodded toward the train.

  “Mightn’t you?” said Ephram.

  “One or three might ride,” came another familiar voice, “but there isn’t enough of her to carry the whole of us.” Jasper Packet scurried out from hiding and glanced nervously about the yard. “It’ll be morning before we’re all in Dresden.”

  “A little weary from the journey, I warrant,” said Big Eye. “And not so ready to tangle with these villains of yours.”

  “Dear me,” said Eagleton.

  “Yes, yes,” said Ephram.

  “Hmmm,” said Thump.

  “I must admit,” said Eagleton, “and here I risk speaking for my companions, but I believe we have accustomed ourselves to the notion of your assistance, Mr. Pfelt.”

  Ephram nodded gravely, and Thump said “Hmmm” once again.

  “Perhaps,” conjectured Ephram, “Mr. Pfelt, and maybe Mr. Packet as well, would allow us to sponsor their tickets. In this way they could accompany us and we will benefit from their experience of Dresden and other practical intelligence.”

  “That’s very good, Ephram!” declared Eagleton.

  “I don’t think I could do it,” said Big Eye Pfelt. “I’d feel out of sorts, you know, lording it over the fellows. Haven’t ridden inside a train since the war, and, besides, I’m not sure I’d be welcome in my present state.”

  “You would be welcome as our guests, sir!” said Ephram, his egalitarian imagination rankled by the thought of any man with a ticket being turned away.

  “They shall all go,” said Thump.

  “What’s that, Thump?” said Ephram.

  “Thump?” said Eagleton.

  “They shall all g
o,” said that worthy. “Or, at the very least, all that the train will hold. I will make a draft against my bank.”

  It was marvelous how Thump took “the bull by the horns” (in Big Eye’s colorful locution). The hoboes, eager to experience the train from the inside, were only momentarily deflated when Thump’s present mode of costume elicited from the ticket seller a disbelief in the size of his bank account. Without their hats, Eagleton and Ephram did not look the well-off fellows either (and their suits were a small bit worse for wear). They might have been stymied if Laura Patterson, the wife of the local jail keeper, had not arrived from visiting relatives in Windsor and recognized the three gentlemen. Her husband had accompanied the Moosepath League on the aforementioned adventure in Edgecomb, and she was able to assure the ticket man that they were of an honorable order and upstanding members of society at large.

  The members of the club were duly grateful, but it was only after lobbying her steadfast support that the jail keeper’s wife realized they were attempting to purchase tickets for the crowd of hoboes on the platform. Mrs. Patterson left, not exactly scandalized but certainly puzzled.

  “Let’s do this proper, boys,” declared Big Eye Pfelt.

  “Can I have a window seat?” came one voice.

  “Henry says ‘Can I have a window seat?’” came another.

  “They’re all window seats on the narrow gauge,” said the ticket man.

  Their difficulties were not finished, as it happened. The conductor was a bristly old fellow, and his word was as authoritative as that of a ship’s captain. He took one look at the ragged crowd and refused to let the hoboes board, tickets or no.

  “You can do no such thing!” asserted Ephram.

  “I have sole powers of discretion when it comes to who is and who is not fit to ride this train,” pronounced the conductor.

  Another patron of the narrow-gauge came forward—a well-spoken man who was just returned from a fishing trip up north. He was a lean, good-looking fellow with a straight nose and humorous eyes and cut out heroically in the gear and accoutrements of the wild, a wide-brimmed hat in hand and his red-checkered sleeves rolled up to the elbows. “Section 7, Chapter 140 of the Revised Statutes of the State of Maine,” said this fellow as he came up through the shuffling ranks of potential passengers.

  “What do you know about it?” demanded the conductor.

  This contretemps made for a memorable tableau: the small engine chuffing steam into the cool evening, the picturesque mob of fellows in their rough clothes, some with bags over their shoulders or bedrolls under their arms; there were frying pans and pots, musical instruments, and one fellow appeared like Atlas himself with a great ball of laundry tied up with string and thrown over his shoulder. They were an orderly lot, however, and somewhat in awe of the conductor.

  They parted for the man in woodsman’s clothes, and this unexpected counselor-at-law approached the scene, quoting: “‘An innholder who, upon request, refuses to receive and make suitable provision for a stranger or traveler, and also for his horses and cattle, when he may under the provisions of this Chapter be required to do so, shall be punished by a fine of not more than fifty dollars.”’

  “This isn’t an inn,” said the conductor flatly.

  “Laws in regard to lodging have often been considered useful precedents for passenger service cases.”

  “I’m not an innholder,” insisted the conductor.

  “No, but your employer accepts similar responsibility and liability. You could explain it to him.” The newcomer’s manner was cordial.

  “A lawyer,” said the conductor simply.

  The man nodded.

  “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a case like this yourself,” said the conductor, not without a certain resigned humor.

  “It would be different,” said the lawyer.

  The conductor considered a large pocket watch, then shouted up the line of cars. “Flurry!”

  The engineer peered out from his cab. “Yes, Captain?” he shouted.

  “Back her up to the second siding. We’re putting on another passenger car.” The conductor called for other railmen, and the hoboes gave out a hearty cheer as the switch was pulled and the train chugged back to a single car waiting some yards away on a lonely siding.

  They did not all fit into the newly joined transport, and the conductor sent the best of them (as he judged matters) up ahead, while the lawyer watched amusedly from the platform. Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump pumped the man’s hand and thanked him profusely for his advice and assistance.

  “You gentlemen go up front,” said the conductor, though they were the authors of his present trouble.

  “We will ride with our fellows,” said Thump.

  The conductor put his hat back on his head and took a large breath. “As you will,” he said and walked down the platform.

  “Will there be dining?” Eagleton called after the man.

  “What?” shouted the conductor, and, after a moment’s apoplexy, he said, “There’s tea service.”

  Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump nodded as one.

  “We’ll take tea,” said Eagleton. “Thank you.”

  “And for our friends,” said Ephram.

  The lawyer waved from the platform as the train pulled out of the W. W. & F. Station. Years later, at a convention of legal professionals in New York, a handsome, gray-haired attorney would recount his brief experience of the Moosepath League and the troop of hoboes, averring his everlasting regret that he did not reboard the train simply to see the carload of tramps and roadmen tinkling their spoons in the W. W. & F.’s fine china cups.

  43. The Unrequited

  Hercules paused upon the barn ramp and put his snout in the air. The doors looked southwest, but past the eaves he could see the dark rising off the coast miles away. Birds gathered among the oaks and willows, tittering and chirping the twilight as they might the dawn, and the ghostly forms of gulls padded the fields—the surest sign of an ocean-born storm. Hercules was not so familiar with seabirds and would have liked to have investigated, but Farmer Fern stroked the pig’s head and encouraged him to enter the barn. The creature was further stimulated by the sound of supper being served, and he clopped over the hay-strewn floor to the little stable where he happily buried his bristly muzzle in the evening meal. There was an odd taste among the slops again, and again he was reminded of the grove of white trees down by the pond.

  Hercules was almost his old self as the light dwindled. Madeline stood with her father and Sundry, her arms folded doubtfully, wondering if it were the birch-bark tea or being locked in for the night that brought about the pig’s recovery. Behind the grown folk, the children leaped in the hay and took the day’s last turn at the swing that hung from the rafters.

  Mister Walton wandered in from a lengthy consideration of the weather. “There is a decided glowering in the east,” he said.

  “I think we’re in for it,” agreed Vergilius Fern.

  “Hercules will be under cover, at any rate,” said Sundry.

  “Yes,” said the farmer. “That will be nice for him.” The thought pleased the farmer, and he scratched the pig’s great white back.

  “That will be nice for him,” said Mrs. Fern when her husband repeated Sundry’s observation in the kitchen. Bonny and Susan were washing dishes, and James was hurrying out to milk the cows that had come in from the fields.

  The teapot burbled on the stove; the scent of applesauce cake and gingerbread spiced the room. It would have been the proper thing to serve guests and family in the parlor, but somehow they never made it out of the kitchen. Mister Walton was urged to sit several times, but he beamed from his place at the counter and looked quite at home with a thick slab of applesauce cake in one hand and a steaming cup of tea, heavily laden with heated milk, in the other. Even Aunt Beatrice came in from the back of the house and sat, though she indulged in pap—bread soaked in milk and spooned out of a cup—as tea kept her up at night.

  The last o
f the day took on an amber hue so that the window over the kitchen sink glowed strangely, and the girls paused in their work to gaze out at the gloaming. A chicken ran past. Then the light fell away as if behind a fallen curtain or a closed door. Mrs. Fern lit another lamp. “Never sit in the dark,” she said with the force of an old maxim.

  “I like to sit in the dark,” said Aunt Beatrice, who continued to reveal a contrary streak. “I would never look at a mirror in the dark,” she stated with a nod, as if to indicate some level of agreement with her nephew’s wife.

  “Why is that, Auntie?” wondered Susan.

  “There are people back there who reveal themselves to a darkened room.”

  “Back where?” asked Homer, vaguely horrified.

  “Behind the mirror, of course.”

  The thought caused a shiver among the children, but Mrs. Fern said “Nonsense!” under her breath.

  “Do you really think?” said Bonny, a dripping dish poised above the sink. “I’ll never walk past a mirror in the dark again!”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” said Ruth Fern (though she had), and Mr. Fern was ready to register his doubt, when Sundry spoke up:

  “‘The room within the mir’r appears a twin by light of day,

  The image of the room it apes in every single way;

  By night, within the looking glass, a separate place is shown,

  The mirror’s rays of sun are ours, night’s shadows are its own.’

  “I beg your pardon,” he said in the silence that followed.

  “Not at all,” said Mr. Fern.

  “Do you see?” said Aunt Beatrice. She smiled at Sundry.

  “Who wrote that, Sundry?” asked Mister Walton.

  “My father,” said the young man. “He won’t have a mirror in his and my mother’s room in case he has to get up at night. He’s superstitious, of course.” (Aunt Beatrice’s smile faded.) It was difficult to know, despite his use of the word superstition, whether Sundry himself credited the belief.