Cordelia Underwood, or the Marvelous Beginnings of the Moosepath League

by Van Reid

  The very recollection gave rise to a sudden need to exercise himself, and Eagleton told the driver to let him off. Patting the side of the carriage to indicate that the driver should move on, he walked for a while without conscious direction. He had not gone very far, however, when it occurred to him that he needed company in his distraction—and no one he knew, at this point, was more distracted than his good friend Thump.

  Eagleton turned about on his heel with the intention of walking to his friend’s apartment and very nearly knocked Thump over in the process.

  “Thump!”

  “Eagleton!”

  “Extraordinary!” said Eagleton, retrieving his fallen hat.

  “I am amazed!” said Thump, picking up his walking stick.

  “Meeting on Middle Street.”

  “In the middle, as it were.”

  “I couldn’t have expected it.”

  “I certainly didn’t.”

  “I was only just going to your house.”

  “And I to yours.”

  “This is remarkable.”

  “A coincidence.”

  “I can’t say how happy I am, running into you like this.”

  “And I you, old friend.”

  “I must admit, a certain melancholia has haunted me these few days.”

  “I am similarly beset!”

  “Oh, my friend,” said Eagleton. “A man needs purpose!”

  “He does indeed!”

  “The very distraction from which I seek relief hinders my ability to seek a remedy!”

  “Good heavens! How similar to my own quandary!”

  “It is said that two heads are better than one, and it is with this in mind that I have come seeking you, hopeful that our combined faculties might solve my dilemma.”

  “Eagleton! Our motives are but mirror images of one another!”

  There and then, upon the sidewalk, the two of them stood and thought. No verbal communication passed between them, as if physical propinquity alone might foster a cure for their distracted minds. So intense was their thinking, so deep was their involvement with their problem that passers-by paused to regard them with interest and curiosity. (Several people would mention the sight when they sat down to dinner that evening.)

  For some extended moments Eagleton and Thump remained in their thoughtful postures, peering one at his feet, the other at the sky; and it would seem finally that Eagleton’s theory concerning two heads would not be borne out this day, when a sudden and simultaneous light radiated from their noble faces.

  “Ephram!” shouted Eagleton.

  “Yes!” agreed Thump with equal force.

  “Each on our own would never have thought of it!”

  “I’m sure you are right!”

  “It is his magnificent reason that will free us of our melancholia.”

  “Of course.”

  “Ephram is a very straightforward thinker, Thump.”

  “He is indeed!”

  “My weather is variable. It is mercurial and hardly predictable beyond a day or two. Even your tides differ from day to day, ruled by a varying moon. But Ephram’s time . . .”

  “ . . . marches on unchanged!”

  And so—they marched themselves, not realizing for at least a block and a half that they had set off in separate directions.

  “To our chairman!” announced Ephram. This was, in fact, the third time that he had communicated this opinion—first uttering it in the parlor of his own home, seconding it on the sidewalk of Danforth Street outside his house, and voicing the thought a third time while racing with his friends in a hired cab toward Spruce Street.

  From the very beginning, Eagleton and Thump could not have agreed with him more, and yet they seemed to do just that with each repetition of the phrase.

  Ephram had been out of sorts before his friends had arrived. The cruel vicissitudes of time were the theme of his uneasy thoughts—the very time that Eagleton had deemed unchangeable. But Ephram, who carried three pocket watches and whose house snicked and ticked with clock gears and rang with gongs and bells at every quarter, knew that time was an entity relative to the happiness of the individual experiencing it.

  At the Fourth of July Ball he had more or less conversed (actually rather less than more, since he had been dumbfounded and she bright and talkative) with an attractive young woman for one hour and forty-seven minutes and time had flown. Now, the prospect of ever conversing with that particular female (or even seeing her) again was dim beneath the pall of his own uncertainty and social inexperience—and time dug in its claws to slow each moment into an hour, and every hour into a day. The very ticks and bells that normally caused him so much pleasure now pained him like cruel and tiny darts . . .

  . . . until, that is, he was rescued from this chronic torture by the sudden and unexpected arrival of his friends Eagleton and Thump!

  “A man needs purpose!” announced Ephram, when the three had shared their similar states of distraction.

  “My words exactly, Ephram!” said Eagleton.

  “Hmmm!” said Thump, though it sounded as if he were clearing his throat.

  “Gentlemen!” said Ephram. “We must have a mission!”

  “Yes!” exclaimed Eagleton, quite excited now. “It is extraordinary how completely we think alike. Isn’t it, Thump?”

  “Hmmm!” from Thump again.

  This universal agreement was pleasant to Ephram and he began another pronouncement when it become clear that Thump was actually trying to dislodge something from his throat. Ephram banged the man violently between the shoulder blades and a wax grape, taken from the arrangement on a nearby table, shot across the room.

  “Never fear, Thump!” said Eagleton, mistaking the reason for his friend’s watery eyes. “We are a club, are we not?”

  “Yes!” said Ephram, as if the thought had just occurred him.

  Thump went into a fit of coughing.

  Ephram gripped Thump’s shoulder. “All for one and . . . everyone . . . together . . . .” He knew that this declaration lacked the ring he was wanting, but the sentiment was there. Unfortunately, there was no name for their club yet, so there was no grand entity to specifically invoke; the purpose and intent of their club was also amorphous, but this did not deter Ephram’s train of thought.

  “We need a mission, to be sure,” said Eagleton. “But I am hanged if I can think of one!”

  Thump waved a hand in the air, a gesture that his friends were sure betokened agreement, when actually he was hoping for a glass of water.

  “The answer is simple, Eagleton,” said Ephram. He paused so that the sequel to this statement would not be drowned out by Thump’s renewed hacking. “To our chairman!” he said.

  The fact that Mister Walton as yet had no idea that he had been voted chairman of their nameless club seemed no obstacle as they waited for a cab.

  “To our chairman!” said Ephram, and this was the second instance above mentioned.

  Thump had, by now, gotten his drink of water, but was still rubbing the tears from his eyes. Ephram patted him sympathetically on the back and said something about Mrs. Roberto.

  Eagleton almost smiled to see one friend comfort another so. “I was quite down before Thump arrived,” he admitted.

  “Melancholy was my companion,” said Ephram. He hailed an approaching carriage, shouted the address of Mister Walton’s home, and the three of them piled in. “Spare nothing, man!” said Ephram to the driver. “Time is of the essence!” The great detective himself could not have put it better.

  The driver frowned down from his seat and said something monosyllabic and unintelligible. Ephram waved an impatient hand at him and the fellow simply shook his head and eased the cab into traffic.

  “Expected fine today,” said Eagleton. “Increasing clouds possible tonight.”

  “Low tide at 3:13,” said Thump, more like his old self again.

  Ephram consulted a pocket watch. “It is twenty–two minutes past one,” he said, and after a
long pause he added: “To our chairman!”

  It was a fine day to begin an adventure. The sun was dazzling and a sea breeze rose as the afternoon wore on, moving through the great oaks and elms and maples that lined the handsome streets of Portland. Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump said little; little needed to be said, and, after all, they felt it was important not to second guess their chairman—that grand man of action, Mister Walton.

  They made a dapper trio, their coats finely cut, their hats crisp with recent fashion and worn at carefully studied inclines. Eagleton alone affected the use of a cane, but Ephram sported a new watch fob, and Thump’s beard had been trimmed just the day before. They looked stoically ahead (or in Thump’s case—who sat opposite—stoically behind) and only began to take notice of their surroundings when they reached Spruce Street, which had become famous to them as the home of their gallant (if incognizant) leader.

  “I believe this is the correct place,” said Eagleton, the first to climb down from the cab. He pointed to the brick domicile with his cane, while Thump paid the driver.

  Ephram held Mister Walton’s card in front of his nose and matched the street number on it with the cast-iron numbers visible beside the front door. “Right as usual, my friend,” he said.

  “Oh,” said Eagleton, raising a hand to ward off this embarrassing praise.

  “Shall we?” suggested Ephram. He opened the gate and led the way up the walk to the front door.

  When they knocked, the echoes within the house had an unoccupied quality, and they waited on the top step for some minutes before turning away in disappointment. They looked to one another, hesitating on the top step, their backs to the door, each hoping that one of his friends might have a second course of action to suggest. None of them, unfortunately, had thought the matter any further than finding Mister Walton.

  They were startled, then, by the sound of the door swinging open and Cedric Baffin inquiring if he could be of service.

  “Yes, certainly,” said Ephram, brightening. “We hoped for an interview with Mister Tobias Walton.” He handed the retainer a card with the name Matthew Ephram, Esq. printed in bold letters upon it.

  Mr. Baffin glanced at the card with courteous interest. “I am sorry,” he said. “Mister Toby is not at home.”

  “Has he not returned from Freeport, then?” wondered Eagleton.

  “He hasn’t, actually. He has gone on to Wiscasset. I am not sure when to expect him back.”

  “That is unfortunate,” said Ephram. He exchanged serious looks with Eagleton and Thump. “We did want to speak to him, you see. We have elected him to the position of chairman of our club and we hoped—in the spirit of that station—he might favor us with his advice.”

  “Well put!” said Eagleton with obvious admiration for his friend’s elocution.

  “That is news!” said Cedric, pleased for his employer. “He will know what club I speak of, if I tell him?”

  “Oh, yes! Assuredly!” said Eagleton.

  “We haven’t a name yet,” said Thump with great dignity.

  This seemed to surprise Mr. Baffin. He had collected cards from each of the men by this point, and none of their names were familiar to him. “You’ve known Mister Toby for some time, I gather?”

  “Not at all,” said Eagleton.

  “Just met him,” said Ephram. He looked to Thump. “Was it the day before yesterday?”

  “It was Saturday,” corrected Eagleton. “Fourth of July.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Ephram. “Appropriate, that.”

  “We’re not sure what sort of club, you know,” added Thump.

  “Yes, well,” said Mr. Baffin. “I certainly will inform him as soon as I am able.”

  “Wiscasset, you say,” said Ephram. To Eagleton and Thump’s ears some new purpose was lurking in the voice of their compatriot.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “North and east of Portland, I think,” said Ephram, almost to himself.

  “I do believe,” said Cedric.

  “Gentlemen,” said Ephram as he returned his hat to its perch (Eagleton and Thump followed suit).

  “Much obliged,” said the trio in chorus, retracing their steps toward the street.

  “It is a lovely evening,” said Mr. Baffin, who stood in the doorway, somewhat perplexed.

  The three men turned.

  “Fair and warm tonight,” said Eagleton. “Increasing clouds tomorrow with a chance of showers.”

  “High tide at 8:47,” said Thump.

  “It is 8:14 presently,” informed Ephram from one of his pocket watches as they waved to Cedric.

  Cedric Baffin watched them disappear in the twilight and glanced at the cards again in the light from the hall as he shut the door, chuckling to himself.

  Back on the street, Ephram halted for a moment and looked industriously pensive. Eagleton and Thump waited in silence, knowing that he was in the throes of an idea. “Eagleton,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Thump.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “I am thinking,” said Ephram, and Eagleton and Thump shook hands, they were so pleased with one another for having guessed that this was the case. “Mister Walton, I suspect, has ventured by himself upon some new exploit, and just as we feel the need of his leadership, he no doubt would find invaluable the presence of . . . his club!”

  “Good heavens!” said Eagleton.

  Thump harrumphed with great feeling.

  “You don’t mean?” added Eagleton.

  “Yes, my friends! I propose that we follow our chairman . . . to Wiscasset!”

  Thump nodded vociferously.

  “To Wiscasset!” cried Eagleton.

  26 A Shaggy Bear Story

  SOME MAY HAVE THOUGHT IT ODD THAT JAMES, A VETERAN OF THE NAVY, preferred to travel by rail, but he had spent so much of his youth gazing out over ocean expanses that he found the variety of sights offered up by the land to be of constant interest and comfort. From his seat in their private compartment he would often gaze out over the changing landscape, a book or a newspaper held open but unread upon his lap.

  Mercia was better able to concentrate on a good book or a bit of needlework, while keeping up her end of a conversation with Cordelia, who found the relative solitude of the private compartment less tolerable.

  While passing through Wiscasset, however, they were in the dining car, an environment more suited to Cordelia’s sociable frame of mind. Those passengers who had not heard of the town’s fugitive bear were quickly informed as they approached the county seat, and Cordelia herself presented an entertaining and only slightly exaggerated version of the story. No sighting of Maude was made, though everyone in the car gazed out the left-hand windows for a glimpse of the celebrated creature. The passengers laughed at their own expense when Wiscasset and the Sheepscott River had dwindled behind the contours of land; their talk and chatter fell into separate pools again.

  “Well,” sighed Cordelia. “Now we have no bear to look forward to.” She lifted the cozy from the teapot on their table and poured herself a cup.

  “Are you fond of bears then, miss?” asked an elderly gentleman at the next table. He was a small fellow with a deep, resonant voice and a pleasant face that peered out from a mass of white beard and mustache. His white hair had thinned considerably, so that the dome of his head shone with the light from the window behind him, but his blue eyes, set among crow’s feet and crinkles, gleamed clearly through a narrow pair of spectacles. He turned in his chair so that he could look admiringly at Cordelia.

  “I have never had the pleasure of their acquaintance, sir,” she replied.

  “Ah, well then, don’t worry. There is always another bear to look forward to in this life.”

  “I am glad to hear you say it.” Cordelia rewarded the man’s kind assurance with a bright smile.

  James turned away from his view of the passing scenery to consider the old man. “You’ve known a bear or two in your time then, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Tolly
,” said the man, leaning forward to shake hands. “Isherwood Tolly.”

  James introduced himself and his wife and daughter.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Tolly. “Bears are an inevitability of life. But they don’t have to be a misfortune. I had a farm, years ago, and it was a bear that saved it from ruin.”

  “The bear saved the farm from ruin, Mr. Tolly?” asked Cordelia.

  “And myself.”

  “Do you still have the farm, Mr. Tolly?” asked Mercia.

  “Oh, no, ma’am,” he answered. “But I did once, years ago—mostly stumps and stones. I cleared several acres of land and built a little nook of a house back in ’33. I was twenty-three years old, unmarried, with no family, and several miles outside the village. I didn’t see people very often that summer and fall, so that winter, when the nights came early and the wind in the forest carried away every other noise, I was starved for the sound of a human voice and near foolish for the want of company.”

  Mr. Tolly shifted himself in his chair so he could more comfortably address his listeners, who, by this time, included more than just the Under-woods. “I may have been foolish, actually. For I greeted the first human creature that crossed my path like a long lost brother.

  “He nearly frightened the wits out of me, to begin with, for he was standing a few feet away, knee deep in the snow and as quiet as an Indian, when I came out of the cow shed one morning. I spilt half a bucket of milk jumping back. He was a hard thing to look at in any circumstance. His hair was long and unkempt; to say that he wore rags would flatter his attire; and he had the largest, longest nose I had ever seen on mortal man. He was uncommon tall, and raw-boned, but his teeth were as fine and bright as if he had just cut them. If I hadn’t been so lonely for the sight of another person I would probably have chased him off with a gun. And soon enough I wished I had.