The Boys of Crawford's Basin

by Hamp, Sidford F

  As the prospecting season was now approaching, he therefore let it be known that he desired to raise this money, and then quietly went on with his work again, feeling confident that some one would presently make his appearance, cash in hand, anxious to secure so good a loan. Up to that morning, Seth believed, the expected capitalist had not turned up.

  As the boy finished his story, and—with a sigh at having reached his capacity—his meal as well, my father rose from his chair, exclaiming:

  “What a good fellow that is! When it comes to practical charity, Tom Connor leads us all. In fact, he is in a class by himself:—There is no Tom but Tom, and”—smiling at the little messenger—“Seth Appleby is his prophet—on this occasion.”

  At which Seth opened his eyes, wondering what on earth my father was talking about.

  “Now, I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” the latter continued. “Seth says his mother wants another thousand pounds of potatoes; so you shall take them up this afternoon, Phil; have a good talk with her; find out the rights of this matter; and then, if there is anything we can do to help, we can do it understandingly.”

  I was very glad to do this, and with Seth on the seat beside me and his pony tied behind the wagon, away I went.

  As I had permission to stay in town over night if I liked, and as Mrs. Appleby urged me to do so, saying that I could share Seth’s room, I decided to accept her offer, and after supper we were seated in the store talking over Tom Connor’s affairs—which I found to be just about as Seth had described them—when who should burst in upon us but Tom himself. Evidently my presence was a surprise to him, for on seeing me he exclaimed:

  “Hallo, Phil! You here! Got my message, did you?”

  “Yes,” I replied, “we got it all right; and very much astonished we were.”

  Forthwith I tackled him on the subject, and though at first Tom was disposed to be evasive in his answers, finding that I had all the facts, he at length admitted the truth of the story.

  “But, bless you!” cried he. “That’s nothing. I can raise a hundred and fifty easy enough on my house and pay it off again next winter, so there’s nothing to fuss about. And now, ma’am,” turning to Mrs. Appleby, and abruptly cutting off any further discussion of the topic, “now, ma’am, I’ll give you a little order for groceries, if you please—which was what I came in for.”

  So saying, he took a scrap of paper out of his pocket and proceeded to read out item after item: flour and bacon, molasses and dried apples, a little tea and a great deal of coffee, and so on, and so on, until at last he crumpled up his list between his two big hands, saying:

  “There! And we’ll top off with a gallon of coal oil, if you please.”

  “Ah,” said the widow, laying down her pencil—she was a slight, nervous little woman—“I was afraid you’d come to coal oil presently. I haven’t a pint of it in the house.”

  “Well, that’s a pity,” said her customer. “Then I suppose I’ll have to go down to Yetmore’s for coal oil after all.”

  “Yes, Yetmore can let you have it, I know,” replied the widow, in a tone of voice which caused us both to look at her inquiringly.

  “He’s got a barrel of it,” she continued. “A whole barrel of it—belonging to me.”

  “Eh! What’s that?” cried Tom. “Belonging to you?”

  “Yes. And he won’t give it up. You see, it was this way. I ordered a barrel from the wholesale people in San Remo, and they sent it up two days ago. Here’s the bill of lading. ‘One barrel coal oil, No. 668, by Slaughter’s freight line.’ The freighters made a mistake and delivered it at Yetmore’s, and now he won’t give it up.”

  “Won’t, eh!” cried Tom, with sudden heat. “We’ll just look into that.”

  “It’s no use,” interposed Mrs. Appleby, holding up her hand deprecatingly. “You can’t take it by force; and I’ve tried persuasion. He’s got my barrel; there’s no mistake about that, because Seth went down and identified the number; but he says he ordered a barrel himself from the same firm and it isn’t his fault if they didn’t put the right number on.”

  “Well, that’s coming it pretty strong,” said Tom, indignantly.

  “Yes, and it’s hard on me,” replied the widow, “because people come in here for coal oil, and when they find I haven’t any they go off to Yetmore’s, and of course he gets the rest of their order. I might go to law,” she added, “but I can’t afford that; and by the time my case was settled Yetmore’s barrel will have arrived and he’ll send it over here and pretend to be sorry for the mistake.”

  “I see. Well, ma’am, you put me down for a gallon of coal oil just the same, and get my order together as soon as you like. I’m going out now to take a bit of a stroll around town.”

  Though he spoke calmly, the big miner was, in fact, swelling with wrath at the widow’s tale of petty tyranny. Without saying a word more to her, and forgetting my existence, apparently, he marched off down the street with the determination of going into Yetmore’s and denouncing the storekeeper before his customers. But, no sooner had he come within sight of the store than he suddenly changed his mind.

  “Ho, ho!” he laughed, stopping short and shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Ho, ho! Here’s a game! He keeps it in the back end of the store, I know. I’ll just meander in and prospect a bit.”

  The store was a long, plainly-constructed building, such as may be seen in plenty in any Colorado mining camp, standing on the hillside with its back to the creek. In front its foundation was level with the street, but in the rear it was supported upon posts four feet high, leaving a large vacant space beneath—a favorite “roosting” place for pigs. It was the sight of these four-foot posts which caused the widow’s champion so suddenly to change his mind.

  To tell the truth, Tom Connor, in spite of his forty years, was no more than an overgrown boy, in whose simple character the love of justice and the love of fun jostled each other for first place. He believed he had discovered an opportunity to “take a rise” out of Yetmore and at the same time to compel the misappropriator of other people’s goods to restore the widow’s property. That the contemplated act might savor of illegality did not trouble him—did not occur to him, in fact. He was sure that he had justice on his side, and that was enough for him.

  Full of his idea, Tom walked into the store, where he found Yetmore very busy serving customers, for it was near closing time, and to an inquiry as to what he wanted, he replied:

  “Nothing just now, thank ye. I’ll just mosey around and take a look at things.”

  To this Yetmore nodded assent; for though he and the miner had no affection for each other, they were outwardly on good terms, and it was no unusual thing for Tom to come into the store.

  Connor “moseyed” accordingly, and kept on “moseying” until he reached the back of the building, and there, standing upright against the rear wall, was the barrel, and beside it, mounted on a chair, a putty-faced boy, a stranger to Tom, who was busy boring a hole in the top of it.

  “Trade pretty brisk?” inquired Connor, sauntering up.

  “You bet,” replied the youth, laconically.

  “What does ‘668’ stand for?” asked the miner, tapping the top of the barrel with his finger.

  “That’s the number of the barrel,” was the reply. “The wholesalers down in San Remo always cut a number in their barrels when they send ’em out.”

  “Your boss must be a right smart business man to run a ’stablishment like this,” remarked Tom, after a pause, glancing about the store.

  “That’s what,” replied the boy, admiringly. “You’ll have to get up early to get around the boss. Why, this barrel here——” He stopped short, as though suddenly remembering the value of silence, and screwing up one eye as if to indicate that he could tell things if he liked, he added, “Well, when the boss gets his hands on a thing he don’t let go easy, I tell you that.”

  “Ah! Smart fellow, the boss.”

  “You bet,” remarked the youth
once more.

  All this time Tom had been taking notes. The thin, unplastered wall of the store was constructed of upright planks with battens over the joints. It was pierced with one window; and Tom noted that between the edge of the window and the centre of the barrel were four boards. He noted also that the barrel stood firm and square upon the floor and that the floor itself was water-tight.

  While he was making these observations, the boy finished his boring operation and having inserted a vent-peg in the hole, walked off. As soon as he was out of sight, Tom stepped up to the barrel, pulled out the vent-peg, dropped it into his pocket, and having done so, sauntered leisurely up the store again and went out.

  For a little while he hung around on the other side of the street and presently he had the satisfaction of seeing the lights in the store extinguished, soon after which Yetmore came out and locking the door behind him, walked away to his house.

  “Ah! So the putty-faced boy sleeps in the store, does he?” remarked Tom to himself; a conclusion in which he was confirmed when he saw a candle lighted and the boy making up his bed under the counter. A few minutes later the candle was blown out, when Tom set off briskly up the street for the widow’s store.

  He found Mrs. Appleby and Seth tidying up preparatory to closing the store, and stepping in, he said, “You don’t take in lodgers, I suppose, ma’am? I’m intending to stay down town to-night.”

  “No, we don’t,” replied the widow. “The house is not large enough. But if you’ve nowhere to sleep, you’re welcome to make up a bed on the floor—I can let you have some blankets.”

  “Thank ye, ma’am, I’ll be glad to do it, if you please.”

  Accordingly, after the widow had retired up-stairs to her room and Seth and I to ours, Tom spread his blankets on the floor and went to bed himself.

  All was dark and silent when, at one o’clock in the morning, Tom sat up in bed, and after fumbling about for a minute, found a match and lighted a candle.

  “Have to get up early to get around the boss, eh?” said he to himself, with a chuckle. “Wonder if this is early enough.”

  In his stocking-feet he walked to the back door and opened it wide. After pausing for an instant to listen, he came back, and lifting the empty oil barrel from its stand he carried it outside. Next he selected two buckets, and having reached down from a high shelf a large funnel, an auger and a faucet, he carried them and his boots into the back yard, and having locked the door behind him, walked off into the darkness.

  In a short time he reappeared, leading a horse, to which was harnessed a low wood-sled. Upon this sled he firmly lashed the barrel, and gathering up the other implements he took the horse by the bridle and led him away down the silent street; for the town of Sulphide as yet boasted neither a lighting system nor a police force—or, rather, the police force was accustomed to betake himself to bed with the rest of the community—so Tom had the dark and empty street entirely to himself.

  In a few minutes he drew up at the rear of Yetmore’s store, where, leaving the horse standing, he proceeded to count four planks from the edge of the window. Having marked the right plank, he took the auger, and crawling beneath the store, set to work boring a hole up through the floor. Presently the auger broke through, coming with a thump against the bottom of the barrel above, when Tom withdrew the instrument, and taking out his knife enlarged the hole considerably.

  So far, so good. Next he set a bucket beneath the hole, took the faucet between his teeth in order to have it handy, and inserting the auger, he set to, boring a hole in the bottom of the barrel. Soon the tool popped through, when Tom hastily substituted the faucet, which he drove firmly in with a blow of his horny palm.

  The putty-faced boy inside the store stirred in his blankets, muttered something about “them pigs,” and went to sleep again.

  Tom waited a moment to listen, and then drew off a bucket of oil. As soon as this was full he replaced it with the other bucket and emptied the first one into the barrel on the sled. This process he repeated until the oil began to dribble, when he carefully knocked out the faucet, and having collected his tools and emptied the last bucket into the barrel, he again took the horse by the bridle and silently led him away.

  Arrived once more in the widow’s back yard, Tom unshipped the barrel and went off to restore the horse to its stable. He soon returned, and having unlocked the back door and re-lighted his candle, he proceeded to get the barrel into the house and back upon its stand; a work of immense labor, rendered all the harder by the necessity of keeping silence. Tom was a man of great strength, however, and at last he had the satisfaction of seeing the barrel once more in its place without having heard a sound from the sleepers overhead. Having washed the buckets and tools, he put them back where they came from, locked the door, and for the second time that night went to bed.

  It was about half-past six in the morning that Tom, happening to look out of the front window, saw Yetmore coming hurriedly up the street, like a hound following the trail of the sled. Stepping to the little window at the rear, Tom peeped out and saw the storekeeper enter the back yard, walk to the spot where the sled had stopped, and stand for a minute examining the marks in the soil. Having apparently satisfied himself, he turned about and went off down the street again.

  “What’s he going to do about it, I wonder?” said Tom to himself. “Reckon I’ll just mosey down to the store and see.”

  As he heard Seth coming down the stairs, he unlocked the front door and stepping outside, walked down to Yetmore’s.

  “Morning,” said he, cheerfully. “It’s a bit early for customers, I suppose, but I’m in a hurry this morning and I’d like to know whether you can let me have a gallon of coal oil.”

  “Sorry to say I can’t,” replied the storekeeper. “Our only barrel sprang a leak last night and every drop ran out.”

  “You don’t say!” exclaimed Tom, with an air of concern. “Then I suppose I’ll have to go up to the widow Appleby’s. She’s got plenty, I know.”

  As he said this he looked hard at Yetmore, who in turn looked hard at him.

  “Maybe,” said the storekeeper presently, “maybe you know something about that leak?”

  Tom nodded. “I do,” said he. “I know all about it; and I’m the only one that does. I know the whole story, too, from one end to the other. The widow has got her barrel of oil; and you and I can make a sort of a guess as to how she got it. As to your barrel, it unfortunately sprung a leak. Is that the story?”

  Yetmore stood for a minute glowering at the big miner, and then said, shortly, “That’s the story.”

  “All right,” replied Tom; and turning on his heel, he went out.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XI

  Tom’s Second Window

  Mrs. Appleby never did quite understand how her barrel of oil had been recovered for her. All she knew for certain was that her good friend, Mr. Connor, had somehow procured it from Yetmore, and that Yetmore was, as Mr. Connor said, “agreeable.”

  As for myself, when Tom that morning, taking me aside, related with many chuckles how he had occupied himself during the night, I must own that my only feeling was one of satisfaction at the thought that Yetmore had been made to restore the widow’s property, and that the fear of ridicule would probably keep him silent on the subject. Sharing with most boys the love of fair play and the hatred of oppression, Tom’s cleverness and promptness of action seemed to me altogether commendable.

  Nevertheless, I foresaw one consequence of the transaction which, I thought, was pretty sure to follow, namely, that it would arouse in Yetmore an angry resolve to “get even” with Tom by hook or by crook. That he would resort to active reprisals if the opportunity presented itself I felt certain, and so I warned our friend. But Tom, careless as usual, refused to take any precautions, believing that Yetmore would not venture as long as he—Tom—had, as he expressed it, two such damaging shots in his magazine as the story of the lead boulder and the story of the oil barrel; on both
of which subjects he had, with rare discretion, determined to keep silence unless circumstances should warrant their disclosure.

  It was not till I had reached home again and had jubilantly retailed the story to my father, that I began to understand how there might be yet another aspect to the matter. Instead of receiving it with a hearty laugh and a “Good for Tom,” as I had anticipated, he shook his head and said:

  “I’m sorry to hear it. Tom made a mistake that time. That Yetmore should be made to give up the barrel of oil is proper enough; but what right has Tom to appropriate to himself the duties of judge, jury and executive officer? It is just such cases as this that earn for the American people the reputation of a nation without respect for law. No. Tom meant well, I know, but in my opinion he made a mistake all the same.”

  “I never thought of it in that light,” said I; “so it is just as well, probably, that Tom didn’t let me into the secret beforehand, because I’m afraid I should have been only too ready to help if he had asked me.”

  “Yes, it is just as well you were not given the choice, I expect,” replied my father, smiling. “I’m glad Tom had the sense to take the whole responsibility on his own shoulders. Does he expect that Yetmore will be content to let the matter rest where it is?”

  “He seems to think so; though he is such a heedless fellow that it wouldn’t bother him much if he thought otherwise.”

  “Well, in my opinion he will do well to keep his eyes open. As I told you before, I think Yetmore’s natural caution would prompt him to keep within the law, but it is not impossible now, Tom having set him the example—for one such transgression of the law is apt to breed another—that he will think himself justified in resorting to lawless measures in his turn; especially as he will have that fellow, Long John, jogging his elbow and whispering evil counsels in his ear all the time.”