The Abandoned Farmers

by Irvin S. Cobb

  CHAPTER II. THE START OF A DREAM

  For years it was the dream of our life--I should say our lives, sincemy wife shared this vision with me--to own an abandoned farm. The ideafirst came to us through reading articles that appeared in the variousmagazines and newspapers telling of the sudden growth of what I may callthe aban-doned-farm industry.

  It seemed that New England in general--and the state of Connecticutin particular--was thickly speckled with delightful old places which,through overcultivation or ill-treatment, had become for the time beingsterile and non-productive; so that the original owners had moved awayto the nearby manufacturing towns, leaving their ancestral homesteadsempty and their ancestral acres idle. As a result there were greatnumbers of desirable places, any one of which might be had for asong. That was the term most commonly used by the writers of thesearticles--abandoned farms going for a song. Now, singing is not myforte; still, I made up my mind that if such indeed was the case I wouldsing a little, accompanying myself on my bank balance, and win me anabandoned farm.

  The formula as laid down by the authorities was simple in the extreme:Taking almost any Connecticut town for a starting point, you merelymeandered along an elm-lined road until you came to a desirablelocation, which you purchased for the price of the aforesaid song. Thisformality being completed, you spent a trivial sum in restoring thefences, and so on, and modernizing the interior of the house;after which it was a comparatively easy task to restore the land toproductiveness by processes of intensive agriculture--details procurablefrom any standard book on the subject or through easy lessons by mail.And so presently, with scarcely any trouble or expense at all, you werethe possessor of a delightful country estate upon which to spend yourdeclining years. It made no difference whether you were one of thosepersons who had never to date declined anything of value; there was notelling when you might start in.

  I could shut my eyes and see the whole delectable prospect: Upon agentle eminence crowned with ancient trees stood the rambling old manse,filled with marvelous antique furniture, grandfather's clocks datingback to the whaling days, spinning wheels, pottery that came over onthe _Mayflower_, and all those sorts of things. Round about were themeadows, some under cultivation and some lying fallow, the latter beingdotted at appropriate intervals with fallow deer.

  At one side of the house was the orchard, the old gnarly trees crookingtheir bent limbs as though inviting one to come and pluck the sun-kissedfruit from the burdened bough; at the other side a purling brookwandering its way into a greenwood copse, where through all the goldenday sang the feathered warblers indigenous to the climate, including thesoft-billed Greenwich thrush, the Peabody bird, the Pettingill bird,the red worsted pulse-warmer, and others of the commoner varieties toonumerous to mention.

  At the back were the abandoned cotes and byres, with an abandonedrooster crowing lustily upon a henhouse, and an abandoned bull calfdisporting himself in the clover of the pasture. At the front was arolling vista undulating gently away to where above the tree-topsthere rose the spires of a typical New England village full of old lineRepublicans and characters suitable for putting into short stories. Onbeyond, past where a silver lake glinted in the sunshine, was a vieweither of the distant Sound or the distant mountains. Personally Iintended that my establishment should be so placed as to command a viewof the Sound from the east windows and of the mountains from the westwindows. And all to be had for a song! Why, the mere thought of it wasenough to make a man start taking vocal culture right away.

  Besides, I had been waiting impatiently for a long time for anopportunity to work out several agricultural projects of my own. Forexample, there was my notion in regard to the mulberry. The mulberry,as all know, is one of our most abundant small fruits; but manyhave objected to it on account of its woolly appearance and slightlycaterpillary taste. My idea was to cross the mulberry on the slipperyelm--pronounced, where I came from, ellum--producing a fruit which Ishall call the mulellum. This fruit would combine the health-givingqualities of the mulberry with the agreeable smoothness of the slipperyelm; in fact, if my plans worked out I should have a berry that wouldgo down so slick the consumer could not taste it at all unless he shouldeat too many of them and suffer from indigestion afterward.

  Then there was my scheme for inducing the common chinch bug to makechintz curtains. If the silk worms can make silk why should not thechinch bug do something useful instead of wasting his energies in idlepursuits? This is what I wished to know. And why should this man LutherBurbank enjoy a practical monopoly of all these propositions? That wasthe way I looked at it; and I figured that an abandoned farm would makean ideal place for working out such experiments as might come to me fromtime to time.

  The trouble was that, though everybody wrote of the abandoned farms in abroad, general, allur-ing way, nobody gave the exact location of anyof them. I subscribed for one of the monthly publications devoted tocountry life along the Eastern seaboard and searched assiduously throughits columns for mention of abandoned farms. The owners of most of thecountry places that were advertised for sale made mention of suchthings as fourteen master's bedrooms and nine master's baths--showingundoubtedly that the master would be expected to sleep oftener than hebathed--sunken gardens and private hunting preserves, private golf linksand private yacht landings.

  In nearly every instance, also, the advertisement was accompanied by ahalftone picture of a structure greatly resembling the new county courthouse they are going to have down at Paducah if the bond issue everpasses. This seemed a suitable place for holding circuit court in, oreven fiscal court, but it was not exactly the kind of country homethat we had pictured for ourselves. As my wife said, just the detail ofwashing all those windows would keep the girl busy fully half thetime. Nor did I care to invest in any sunken gardens. I had sufficientexperience in that direction when we lived in the suburbs andpermanently invested about half of what I made in our eight-by-tenflower bed in an effort to make it produce the kind of flowers that theflorists' catalogues described. You could not tell us anything aboutthat subject--we knew where a sunken garden derives its name. We paidgood money to know.

  None of the places advertised in the monthly seemed sufficientlyabandoned for our purposes, so for a little while we were in a quandary.Then I had a bright thought. I said to myself that undoubtedly abandonedfarms were so cheap the owners did not expect to get any real money forthem; they would probably be willing to take something in exchange. So Ibegan buying the evening papers and looking through them in the hope ofrunning across some such item as this:

  To Exchange--Abandoned farm, centrally located, with large farmhouse,containing all antique furniture, barns, outbuildings, familygraveyard--planted--orchard, woodland, fields--unplanted--for acollection of postage stamps in album, an amateur magician's outfit, aguitar with book of instructions, a safety bicycle, or what have you?Address Abandoned, South Squantum Center, Connecticut.

  I found no such offers, however; and in view of what we had read thisseemed stranger still. Finally I decided that the only safe method wouldbe by first-hand investigation upon the spot. I would go by rail tosome small but accessible hamlet in the lower part of New England.On arriving there I personally would examine a number of the moreattractive abandoned farms in the immediate vicinity and make adiscriminating selection. Having reached this conclusion I went to bedand slept peacefully--or at least I went to bed and did so as soon asmy wife and I had settled one point that came up unexpectedly at thisjuncture. It related to the smokehouse. I was in favor of turning thesmokehouse into a study or workroom for myself. She thought, though,that by knocking the walls out and altering the roof and building apergola on to it, it would make an ideal summer house in which to servetea and from which to view the peaceful landscape of afternoons.

  We argued this back and forth at some length, each conceding somethingto the other's views; and finally we decided to knock out the walls andalter the roof and have a summer house with a pergola in connection. Itwas after we reached this compro
mise that I slept so peacefully, for nowthe whole thing was as good as settled. I marveled at not having thoughtof it sooner.

  It was on a bright and peaceful morning that I alighted from the trainat North Newburybunkport.

  Considering that it was supposed to be a typical New England village,North Newbury-bunkport did not appear at first glance to answer tothe customary specifications, such as I had gleaned from my reading ofnovels of New England life. I had expected that the platform would bepopulated by picturesque natives in quaint clothes, with straws in theirmouths and all whittling; and that the depot agent would wear long chinwhiskers and say "I vum!" with much heartiness at frequent intervals.Right here I wish to state that so far as my observations go the nativewho speaks these words about every other line is no longer on the job.Either I Vum the Terrible has died or else he has gone to England toplay the part of the typical American millionaire in American playswritten by Englishmen.

  Instead of the loafers, several chauffeurs were idling about the stationand a string of automobiles was drawn up across the road. Just as Idisembarked there drove up a large red bus labeled: Sylvan Dale SummerHotel, European and American Plans. The station agent also proved inthe nature of a disappointment. He did not even say "I swan" or "Ical'late!" or anything of that nature. He wore a pink in his buttonholeand his hair was scalloped up off his forehead in what is known as thelion tamer's roach. Approaching, I said to him:

  "In what direction should I go to find some of the abandoned farms ofthis vicinity? I would prefer to go where there is a good assortment topick from."

  He did not appear to understand, so I repeated the question, at the sametime offering him a cigar.

  "Bo," he said, "you've sure got me winging now. You'd better ask TonyMagnito--he runs the garage three doors up the street from here on theother side. Tony does a lot of driving round the country for suckersthat come up here, and he might help you."

  To reach the garage I had to cross the road, dodging several automobilesin transit, and then pass two old-fashioned New England houses frontingclose up to the sidewalk. One had the sign of a teahouse over the door,and in the window of the other, picture postcards, birch-bark souvenirsand standard varieties of candy were displayed for sale.

  Despite his foreign-sounding name, Mr. Magnito spoke fair English--thatis, as fair English as any one speaks who employs the Manhattan accentin so doing.

  Even after he found out that I did not care to rent a touring car forsightseeing purposes at five dollars an hour he was quite affable andaccommodating; but my opening question appeared to puzzle him just as inthe case of the depot agent.

  "Mister," he said frankly, "I'm sorry, but I don't seem to make you.What's this thing you is looking for? Tell me over again slow."

  Really the ignorance of these villagers regarding one of their principalproducts--a product lying, so to speak, at their very doors and writtenabout constantly in the public prints--was ludicrous. It would have beenlaughable if it had not been deplorable. I saw that I could not indulgein general trade terms. I must be painfully explicit and simple.

  "What I am seeking"--I said it very slowly and very distinctly--"isa farm that has been deserted, so to speak--one that has outlived itsusefulness as a farm proper, and everything like that!"

  "Oh," he says, "now I get you! Why didn't you say that in the firstplace? The place you're looking for is the old Parham place, out here onthe post road about a mile. August'll take good care of you--that's hisspecialty."

  "August?" I inquired. "August who?"

  "August Weinstopper--the guy who runs it," he explained. "You must haveknown August if you lived long in New York. He used to be the steward atthat big hotel at Broadway and Forty-second; that was before he came uphere and opened up the old Parham place as an automobile roadhouse.He's cleaning up about a thousand a month. Some class to that mantrap!They've got an orchestra, and nothing but vintage goods on the winecard, and dancing at all hours. Any night you'll see forty or fifty bigcars rolling up there, bringing swell dames and-"

  I judge he saw by my expression that he was on a totally wrong tack,because he stopped short.

  "Say, mister," he said, "I guess you'd better step into the post-officehere--next door--and tell your troubles to Miss Plummer. She knowseverything that's going on round here--and she ought to, too, seeing asshe gets first chance at all the circulars and postal cards that comein. Besides, I gotter be changing that gasoline sign--gas has went uptwo cents a gallon more."

  Miss Plummer was sorting mail when I appeared at her wicket. She was oneof those elderly, spinsterish-looking, kittenish females who seem in anintense state of surprise all the time. Her eyebrows arched like croquetwickets and her mouth made O's before she uttered them.

  "Name, please?" she said twitteringly.

  I told her.

  "Ah," she said in the thrilled tone of one who is watching a Fourth ofJuly skyrocket explode in midair. The news seemed to please her.

  "And the initials, please?"

  "The initials are of no consequence. I do not expect any mail," I said."I want merely to ask you a question."

  "Indeed!" she said coyly. She said it as though I had just given hera handsome remembrance, and she cocked her head on one side like abird--like a hen-bird.

  "I hate to trouble you," I went on, "but I have experienced somedifficulty in making your townspeople understand me. I am looking for acertain kind of farm--a farm of an abandoned character." At once I saw Ihad made a mistake.

  "You do not get my meaning," I said hastily. "I refer to a farm that hasbeen deserted, closed up, shut down--in short, abandoned. I trust I makemyself plain."

  She was still suffering from shock, however. She gave me a wounded-fawnglance and averted her burning face.

  "The Prewitt property might suit your purposes--whatever they may be,"she said coldly over her shoulder. "Mr. Jabez Pickerel, of Pickerel &Pike, real-estate dealers, on the first corner above, will doubtlessgive you the desired information. He has charge of the Prewittproperty."

  At last, I said to myself as I turned away, I was on the right track.Mr. Pickerel rose as I entered his place of business. He was a short,square man, with a brisk manner and a roving eye.

  "I have been directed to you," I began. He seized my hand and beganshaking it warmly. "I have been told," I continued, "that you havecharge of the old Prewitt farm somewhere near here; and as I am in themarket for an aban-" I got no farther than that.

  "In one minute," he shouted explosively--"in just one minute!"

  Still clutching me by the hand, he rushed me pell-mell out of the place.At the curbing stood a long, low, rakish racing-model roadster, lookingsomething like a high-powered projectile and something like an enlargedtailor's goose. Leaping into this machine at one bound, he dragged meup into the seat beside him and threw on the power. Instantly we werestreaking away at a perfectly appalling rate of speed--fully forty-fiveto fifty-five miles an hour I should say. You never saw anything sosudden in your life. It was exactly like a kidnaping. It was only by theexercise of great self-control that I restrained myself from screamingfor help. I had the feeling that I was being abducted--for what purposeI knew not.

  As we spun round a corner on two wheels, spraying up a long furrow ofdust, the same as shown in pictures of the chariot race in Ben-Hur,a man with a watch in his hand and wearing a badge--a constable, Ithink--ran out of a house that had a magistrate's sign over it and threwup his hand authoritatively, as though to stop us; but my companionyelled something the purport of which I could not distinguish andthe constable fell back. Glancing rearward over my shoulder I saw himhalting another car bearing a New York license that did not appear to begoing half so fast as we were.

  In another second we were out of town, tearing along a country highway.Evidently sensing the alarm expressed by my tense face and strainedposture, this man Pickerel began saying something in what was evidentlyintended to be a reassuring tone; but such was the roaring of the carthat I could distinguish only broken frag
ments of his speech. I caughtthe words "unparalleled opportunity," repeated several times--the termappeared to be a favorite of his--and "marvelous proposition." PossiblyI was not listening very closely anyhow, my mind being otherwiseengaged. For one thing I was surmising in a general sort of way uponthe old theory of the result when the irresistible force encounters theimmovable object. I was wondering how long it would be before we hitsomething solid and whether it would be possible afterward to tell usapart. His straw hat also made me wonder. I had mine clutched in bothhands and even then it fluttered against my bosom like a captive bird,but his stayed put. I think yet he must have had threads cut in his headto match the convolutions of the straw and screwed his hat on, like anut on an axle.

  I have a confused recollection of rushing with the speed of the tornadothrough rows of trees; of leaping from the crest of one small hill tothe crest of the next small hill; of passing a truck patch with suchvelocity that the lettuce and tomatoes and other things all seemed tomerge together in a manner suggestive of a well-mixed vegetable salad.

  Then we swung off the main road in between the huge brick columns of anornate gateway that stood alone, with no fence in connection. We bumpilytraversed a rutted stretch of cleared land; and then with a jar anda jolt we came to a pause in what appeared to be a wide and barrenexpanse.

  As my heart began to throb with slightly less violence I looked about mefor the abandoned farmhouse. I had conceived that it would be white withgreen blinds and that it would stand among trees. It was not in sight;neither were the trees. The entire landscape presented an aspect thatwas indeed remarkable. Small numbered stakes, planted in double lines atregular intervals, so as to form aisles, stretched away from us in everydirection. Also there were twin rows of slender sticks planted in theearth in a sort of geometric pattern. Some were the size of switches.Others were almost as large as umbrella handles and had sproutedslightly. A short distance away an Italian was steering a dirtscraperattached to a languid mule along a sort of dim roadway. There were noother living creatures in sight. Right at my feet were two painted andlettered boards affixed at cross angles to a wooden upright. The legendon one of these boards was: Grand Concourse. The inscription on theother read: Nineteenth Avenue West. Repressing a gasp, I opened my mouthto speak.

  "Ahem!" I said. "There has been some mistake--"

  "There can be no mistake!" he shouted enthusiastically. "The onlymistake possible is not to take advantage of this magnificentopportunity while it is yet possible to do so. Just observe that view!"He waved his arm in the general direction of the horizon from northwestto southeast. "Breathe this air! As a personal favor to me just breathea little of this air!" He inhaled deeply himself as though to show mehow, and I followed suit, because after that ride I needed to catch upwith my regular breathing.

  "Thank you!" I said gratefully when I had finished breathing. "But howabout----"

  "Quite right!" he cried, beaming upon me admiringly. "Quite right! Idon't blame you. You have a right to know all the details. As a businessman you should ask that question. You were about to say: But how aboutthe train service? Ah, there spoke the true business man, the carefulinvestor! Twenty fast trains a day each way--twenty, sir! Remember! Andas for accessibility--well, accessibility is simply no name for it! Onlytwo or three minutes from the station. You saw how long it took us toget here to-day? Well, then, what more could you ask? Right here," hewent on, pointing, "is the country club--a magnificent thing!"

  I looked, but I didn't see anything except a hole in the ground aboutfifty feet from us.

  "Where?" I asked. "I don't see it."

  "Well," he said, "this is where it is going to be. You automaticallybecome a member of the country club; in fact, you are as good as amember now! And right up there at the corner of Lincoln Boulevard andWashington Parkway, where that scraper is, is the public library--thesite for it! You'll be crazy about the public library! When we get backI'll let you run over the plans for the public library while I'm fixingup the papers. Oh, 'my friend, how glad I am you came while there wasyet time!"

  I breasted the roaring torrent of his pouring language.

  "One minute," I begged of him--"One minute, if you please! I am obligedto you for the interest you take in me, a mere stranger to you; butthere has been a misunderstanding. I wanted to see the Prewitt place."

  "This is the Prewitt place," he said.

  "Yes," I said; "but where is the house? And why all this--why allthese-" I indicated by a wave of my hand what I meant.

  "Naturally," he explained, "the house is no longer here. We tore itaway--it was old; whereas everything here will be new, modern andup-to-date. This is--or was--the Prewitt place, now better known asHomecrest Heights, the Development Ideal!" Having begun to capitalizehis words, he continued to do so. "The Perfect Addition! The SuburbSuperb! Away From the City's Dust and Heat! Away From Its Glamor andClamor! Into the Open! Into the Great Out-of-Doors! Back to the Soil!Villa Plots on Easy Terms! You Furnish the Birds, We Furnish the Nest!The Place For a Business Man to Rear His Family! You Are Married? YouHave a Wife? You Have Little Ones?"

  "Yes," I said, "one of each--one wife and one little one."

  "Ah!" he cried gladly. "One Little One--How Sweet! You Love Your LittleOne--Ah, Yes! Yes! You Desire to Give Your Little One a Chance? YouWould Give Her Congenial Surroundings--Refined Surroundings? You WouldInculcate in Her While Young the Love of Nature?" He put an entiresentence into capitals now: "Give Your Little One a Chance! That is AllI Ask of You!"

  He had me by both lapels. I thought he was going to kneel to me inpleading. I feared he might kiss me. I raised him to his feet. Then hismanner changed--it became domineering, hectoring, almost threatening.

  I will pass briefly over the events of the succeeding hour, includingour return to his lair or office. Accounts of battles where all thelosses fall upon one side are rarely interesting to read about anyway.Suffice it to say that at the last minute I was saved. It was adesperate struggle though. I had offered the utmost resistance at first,but he would surely have had his way with me--only that a train pulledin bound for the city just as he was showing me, as party of the firstpart, where I was to sign my name on the dotted line A. Even then,weakened and worn as I was, I should probably not have succeeded inbeating him off if he had not been hampered by having a fountain pen inone hand and the documents in the other. At the door he intercepted me;but I tackled him low about the body and broke through and fled like ahunted roebuck, catching the last car just as the relief train pulledout of the station. It was a close squeeze, but I made it. The thwartedMr. Pickerel wrote me regularly for some months thereafter, makingmention of My Little One in every letter; but after a while I took tosending the letters back to him unopened, and eventually he quit.

  I reached home along toward evening. I was tired, but I was notdiscouraged. I reported progress on the part of the committee on apermanent site, but told my wife that in order to find exactly what wewanted it would be necessary for us to leave the main-traveled paths.It was now quite apparent to me that the abandoned farm-seeker who stucktoo closely to the railroad lines was bound to be thrown constantly incontact with those false and feverish metropolitan influences which,radiating from the city, have spread over the country like the spokes ofa wheel or an upas tree, or a jauga-naut, or something of that nature.The thing to do was to get into an automobile and go away from theprincipal routes of travel, into districts where the abandoned farmswould naturally be more numerous.

  This solved one phase of the situation--we now knew definitely whereto go. The next problem was to decide upon some friend owning anautomobile. We fixed upon the Winsells. They are charming people! We aredevoted to the Winsells. They were very good friends of ours when theyhad their small four-passenger car; but since they sold the old one andbought a new forty-horse, seven-passenger car, they are so popular thatit is hard to get hold of them for holidays and week-ends.

  Every Saturday--nearly--some one of their list of acquaintances iscalling them up to
tell of a lovely spot he has just heard about, withgood roads all the way, both coming and going; but after a couple ofdisappointments we caught them when they had an open date. Over thetelephone Winsell objected that he did not know anything about theroads up in Connecticut, but I was able to reassure him promptly on thatscore. I told him he need not worry about that--that I would buy theroad map myself. So on a fair Saturday morning we started.

  The trip up through the extreme lower end of the state of New York wasdelightful, being marred by only one or two small mishaps. There wasthe trifling incident of a puncture, which delayed us slightly; butfortunately the accident occurred at a point where there was a wonderfulview of the Croton Lakes, and while Winsell was taking off the old tireand adjusting a new one we sat very comfortably in the car, enjoyingNature's panorama.

  It was a little later on when we hit a dog. It seemed to me that thisdog merely sailed, yowling, up into the air in a sort of long curve, butWinsell insisted that the dog described a parabola. I am very glad thatin accidents of this character it is always the victims that describethe parabola. I know I should be at a complete loss to describe onemyself. Unless it is something like the boomerang of the Australianaborigines I do not even know what a parabola is. Nor did I dream untilthen that Winsell understood the dog language. However, those are buttechnical details.

  After we crossed the state line we got lost several times; this wasbecause the country seemed to have a number of roads the road mapomitted, and the road map had many roads the country had left out.Eventually, though, we came to a district of gently rolling hills,dotted at intervals with those neat white-painted villages in whichNew England excels; and between the villages at frequent intervals werefarmhouses. Abandoned ones, however, were rarer than we had been ledto expect. Not only were these farms visibly populated by persons whoappeared to be permanently attached to their respective localities, butat many of them things were offered for sale--such as home-made pastry,souvenirs, fresh poultry, antique furniture, brass door-knockers, milkand eggs, hand-painted crockery, table board, garden truck, molassestaffy, laundry soap and livestock.

  At length, though, when our necks were quite sore from craning this wayand that on the watch for an abandoned farm that would suit us, wecame to a very attractive-looking place facing a lawn and flanked by anorchard. There was a sign fastened to an elm tree alongside the fence.The sign read: For Information Concerning This Property Inquire Within.

  To Winsell I said:

  "Stop here--this is without doubt the place we have been looking for!"

  Filled--my wife and I--with little thrills of anticipation, we all gotout. I opened the gate and entered the yard, followed by Winsell, mywife and his wife. I was about halfway up the walk when a large dogsprang into view, at the same time showing his teeth in rather anintimidating way. To prevent an encounter with an animal that might behostile, I stepped nimbly behind the nearest tree. As I came round onthe other side of the tree there, to my surprise, was this dog face toface with me. Still desiring to avoid a collision with him, I steppedback the other way. Again I met the dog, which was now growling. Thesituation was rapidly becoming embarrassing when a gentleman came outupon the porch and called sharply to the dog. The dog, with apparentreluctance, retired under the house and the gentleman invited us insideand asked us to be seated. Glancing about his living room I noted thatthe furniture appeared to be a trifle modern for our purposes; but, asI whispered to my wife, you cannot expect to have everything to suit youat first. With the sweet you must ever take the bitter--that I believeis true, though not an original saying.

  In opening the conversation with the strange gentleman I went in abusinesslike way direct to the point.

  "You are the owner of these premises?" I asked. He bowed. "I take it," Ithen said, "that you are about to abandon this farm?"

  "I beg your pardon?" he said, as though confused.

  "I presume," I explained, "that this is practically an abandoned farm."

  "Not exactly," he said. "I'm here."

  "Yes, yes; quite so," I said, speaking perhaps a trifle impatiently."But you are thinking of going away from it, aren't you?"

  "Yes," he admitted; "I am."

  "Now," I said, "we are getting round to the real situation. What are youasking for this place?"

  "Eighteen hundred," he stated. "There are ninety acres of land that gowith the house and the house itself is in very good order."

  I considered for a moment. None of the abandoned farms I had ever readabout sold for so much as eighteen hundred dollars. Still, I reflected,there might have been a recent bull movement; there had certainly beenmuch publicity upon the subject. Before committing myself, I glanced atmy wife. Her expression betokened acquiescence.

  "That figure," I said diplomatically, "was somewhat in excess of what Iwas originally prepared to pay; still, the house seems roomy and, as youwere saying, there are ninety acres. The furniture and equipment go withthe place, I presume?"

  "Naturally," he answered. "That is the customary arrangement."

  "And would you be prepared to give possession immediately?"

  "Immediately," he responded.

  I began to feel enthusiasm. By the look on my wife's face I could tellthat she was enthused, too.

  "If we come to terms," I said, "and everything proves satisfactory, Isuppose you could arrange to have the deed made out at once?"

  "The deed?" he said blankly. "You mean the lease?"

  "The lease?" I said blankly. "You mean the deed?"

  "The deed?" he said blankly. "You mean the lease?"

  "The lease, indeed," said my wife. "You mean----"

  I broke in here. Apparently we were all getting the habit.

  "Let us be perfectly frank in this matter," I said. "Let us dispensewith these evasive and dilatory tactics. You want eighteen hundreddollars for this place, furnished?"

  "Exactly," he responded. "Eighteen hundred dollars for it from Juneto October." Then, noting the expressions of our faces, he continuedhurriedly: "A remarkably small figure considering what summer rentalsare in this section. Besides, this house is new. It costs a lot toreproduce these old Colonial designs!"

  I saw at once that we were but wasting our time in this person'scompany. He had not the faintest conception of what we wanted. We cameaway. Besides, as I remarked to the others after we were back in the carand on our way again, this house-farm would never have suited us; theview from it was nothing extra. I told Winsell to go deeper into thecountry until we really struck the abandoned farm belt.

  So we went farther and farther. After a while it was late afternoon andwe seemed to be lost again. My wife and Winsell's wife were tired; sowe dropped them at the next teahouse we passed. I believe it was theeighteenth teahouse for the day. Winsell and I then continued on thequest alone. Women know so little about business anyway that it isbetter, I think, whenever possible, to conduct important matters withouttheir presence. It takes a masculine intellect to wrestle with theseintricate problems; and for some reason or other this problem wasbecoming more and more complicated and intricate all the time.

  On a long, deserted stretch of road, as the shadows were lengthening,we overtook a native of a rural aspect plodding along alone. Just as wepassed him I was taken with an idea and I told Winsell to stop. I wastired of trafficking with stupid villagers and avaricious land-grabbers.I would deal with the peasantry direct. I would sound the yeomanheart--which is honest and true and ever beats in accord with the bestdictates of human nature.

  "My friend," I said to him, "I am seeking an abandoned farm. Do you knowof many such in this vicinity?"

  "How?" he asked.

  I never got so tired of repeating a question in my life; nevertheless,for this yokel's limited understanding, I repeated it again.

  "Well," he said at length, "whut with all these city fellers moving inhere to do gentleman-farming--whatsoever that may mean--farm propertyhas gone up until now it's wuth considerable more'n town property, asa rule. I could scursely say
I know of any of the kind of farms youmention as laying round loose--no, wait a minute; I do recollecta place. It's that shack up back of the country poor farm that thesupervisors used for a pest house the time the smallpox broke out. Thatthere place is consider'bly abandoned. You might try--"

  In a stern tone of voice I bade Winsell to drive on and turn in at thenext farmhouse he came to. The time for trifling had passed. My mind wasfixed. My jaw was also set. I know, because I set it myself. And I haveno doubt there was a determined glint in my eye; in fact, I could feelthe glint reflected upon my cheek.

  At the next farm Winsell turned in. We passed through a stone gatewayand rolled up a well-kept road toward a house we could see in glimpsesthrough the intervening trees. We skirted several rather neat flowerbeds, curved round a greenhouse and came out on a stretch of lawn. Iat once decided that this place would do undoubtedly. There mightbe alterations to make, but in the main the establishment would besatisfactory even though the house, on closer inspection, proved to belarger than it had seemed when seen from a distance.

  On a signal from me Winsell halted at the front porch. Without a wordI stepped out. He followed. I mounted the steps, treading with greatfirmness and decision, and rang the doorbell hard. A middle-aged persondressed in black, with a high collar, opened the door.

  "Are you the proprietor of this place?" I demanded without any preamble.My patience was exhausted; I may have spoken sharply.

  "Oh, no, sir," he said, and I could tell by his accent he was English;"the marster is out, sir."

  "I wish to see him," I said, "on particular business--at once! At once,you understand--it is important!"

  "Perhaps you'd better come in, sir," he said humbly. It was evident mymanner, which was, I may say, almost haughty, had impressed him deeply."If you will wait, sir, I'll have the marster called, sir. He's not faraway, sir."

  "Very good," I replied. "Do so!"

  He showed us into a large library and fussed about, offering drinksand cigars and what-not. Winsell seemed somewhat perturbed by theseattentions, but I bade him remain perfectly calm and collected, addingthat I would do all the talking.

  We took cigars--very good cigars they were. As they were not bandedI assumed they were home grown. I had always heard that Connecticuttobacco was strong, but these specimens were very mild and pleasant. Ihad about decided I should put in tobacco for private consumption andgrow my own cigars and cigarettes when the door opened, and a stoutelderly man with side whiskers entered the room. He was in golfingcostume and was breathing hard.

  "As soon as I got your message I hurried over as fast as I could," hesaid.

  "You need not apologize," I replied; "we have not been kept waiting verylong."

  "I presume you come in regard to the traction matter?" he ventured.

  "No," I said, "not exactly. You own this place, I believe?"

  "I do," he said, staring at me.

  "So far, so good," I said. "Now, then, kindly tell me when you expect toabandon it."

  He backed away from me a few feet, gaping. He opened his mouth and for afew moments absent-mindedly left it in that condition.

  "When do I expect to do what?" he inquired. "When," I said, "do youexpect to abandon it?" He shook his head as though he had some marblesinside of it and liked the rattling sound.

  "I don't understand yet," he said, puzzled.

  "I will explain," I said very patiently. "I wish to acquire by purchaseor otherwise one of the abandoned farms of this state. Not having beenable to find one that was already abandoned, though I believe them tobe very numerous, I am looking for one that is about to be abandoned. Iwish, you understand, to have the first call on it. Winsell"--I saidin an aside--"quit pulling at my coat-tail! Therefore," I resumed,readdressing the man with the side whiskers, "I ask you a plainquestion, to wit: When do you expect to abandon this one? I expect aplain answer."

  He edged a few feet nearer an electric push button which was set in thewall. He seemed flustered and distraught; in fact, almost apprehensive.

  "May I inquire," he said nervously, "how you got in here?"

  "Your servant admitted us," I said, with dignity. "Yes," he said in asoothing tone; "but did you come afoot--or how?"

  "I drove here in a car," I told him, though I couldn't see whatdifference that made.

  "Merciful Heavens!" he muttered. "They do not trust you--I mean you donot drive the car yourself, do you?"

  Here Winsell cut in.

  "I drove the car," he said. "I--I did not want to come, buthe"--pointing to me--"he insisted." Winsell is by nature a grovelingsoul. His tone was almost cringing.

  "I see," said the gentleman, wagging his head, "I see. Sad case--verysad case! Young, too!" Then he faced me. "You will excuse me now," hesaid. "I wish to speak to my butler. I have just thought of severalthings I wish to say to him. Now in regard to abandoning this place:I do not expect to abandon this place just yet--probably not for someweeks or possibly months. In case I should decide to abandon it sooner,if you will leave your address with me I will communicate with you byletter at the institution where you may chance to be stopping at thetime. I trust this will be satisfactory."

  He turned again to Winsell.

  "Does your--ahem--friend care for flowers?" he asked.

  "Yes," said Winsell. "I think so."

  "Perhaps you might show him my flower gardens as you go away," said theside-whiskered man. "I have heard somewhere that flowers have a verysoothing effect sometimes in such cases--or it may have been music. Ihave spent thirty thousand dollars beautifying these grounds and I amreally very proud of them. Show him the flowers by all means--you mighteven let him pick a few if it will humor him."

  I started to speak, but he was gone. In the distance somewhere I heard adoor slam.

  Under the circumstances there was nothing for us to do except tocome away. Originally I did not intend to make public mention of thisincident, preferring to dismiss the entire thing from my mind; but,inasmuch as Winsell has seen fit to circulate a perverted and needlesslyexaggerated version of it among our circle of friends, I feel that theexact circumstances should be properly set forth.

  It was a late hour when we rejoined our wives. This was due to Winsel'sstupidity in forgetting the route we had traversed after parting fromthem; in fact, it was nearly midnight before he found his way back tothe teahouse where we left them. The teahouse had been closed for somehours then and our wives were sitting in the dark on the teahouse porchwaiting for us. Really, I could not blame them for scolding Winsell; butthey displayed an unwarranted peevishness toward me. My wife's displayof temper was really the last straw. It was that, taken in connectionwith certain other circumstances, which clinched my growing resolutionto let the whole project slide into oblivion. I woke her up and in somany words told her so on the way home. We arrived there shortly afterdaylight of the following morning.

  So, as I said at the outset, we gave up our purpose of buying anabandoned farm and moved into a flat on the upper west side.