CHAPTER VII.
THE DEACON’S STORY.
“Ahem!” began Deacon Cornhill, clearing his throat, and while he did so looking anxiously over the crowd, wondering still how so many came to be there. “Ahem! I—you see, fri’nds, this is sich a s’prise to me that I hardly know how to begin. You see I got to New York, and I never see sich sights, I swan, I never did! I hadn’t more’n got into town afore a spruce chap stepped up and slapped me on the shoulder, just same’s Sam Williams would, and you all know Sam’s terrible common. Wa’al, he claimed he knowed me up here in Basinburg—told a whopping story ’bout chasin’ a calf out of my garden seven or eight years ago. But all the time he was arter the church money, and ’tween him and ernother and a parcel of boys they eenamost got it, and——”
“Not got the church money, Elihu!” cried a shrill voice from the rear of the throng of spectators, and then Mrs. Cornhill, who had been attracted to the scene the same as the others, pushed her way frantically forward, until she stood on the station platform in front of the abashed deacon. “You don’t say you hev lost the church money, Elihu?”
Several among the spectators groaned.
“Don’t get ’scited, Mandy; don’t git ’scited. I didn’t lose the church money, thanks to this boy here. But if them dog——”
“Hush, deacon! It’s you who is getting ’scited.”
“Wa’al, if you had been where I have, Mandy, and seen what I did you’d get ’scited. But this boy here got my money all back, and then, when he tuk me round and showed me how folks live in that big, wicked city, I swan, I felt like giving ’em all homes right here in Basinburg!”
“I should think you had brought back a good part of the city,” said one of the bystanders.
“Pity the poorest if you call these good,” cried another.
“I tuk a fancy to Rob, here,” continued the deacon, unheeding the interruption, ’arter the good turn he did me. But when I come to ax him to go home with me, he said he couldn’t leave his mother. I told him to take her right along, too. But he had fri’nds, and I told him to take ’em along, though I didn’t s’pose there were more’n a house full. Lordy me! when I come to see how they lived, I wouldn’t take no for an answer, with all the land, and fresh air, and room we have out here.
“Why, it nearly tuk away my breath to just look in their houses. If you will b’lieve it, Mr. Little,” pointing to the invalid man, “lived in a den right under the street, with teams driving overhead, and he a suffocating in a leetle room nine feet under ground. It was only six feet by eight, and he had no fire, only a part of an old bedstead to lie on, an old tick half full of musty hay and a dirty pillow. Mrs. Willet and her darter lived in a house only four feet wide, though the Lord only knows how high it was. Just think of that, and then of the houses that stand empty here the year round.
“These youngsters here were running round wild, like colts turned out to parster, only there weren’t no fences to keep ’em within bounds, and there was no halter on ’em to lead ’em to their stalls when it come night. I tell you, it made my blood bile just to see sich works right in this civilized land. I thought of ’em houses on Hare road standing empty, and says I to myself, ‘there’s room for ’em, and I know the good people of Basinburg will turn to and lend a helping hand.’”
He was perspiring freely, while he showed great excitement, but his animated speech was greeted with a profound silence. It is true some one started to cheer him, but he did not have the courage to give full expression to his feelings. The majority were waiting for ’Squire Hardy to speak, and the rest were too timid to venture an opinion, until he had spoken. Clearing his throat, he finally said:
“It might have been well enough, deacon, if you hadn’t brought a carload. It’s a mystery to me how they got money enough to pay their fares.”
Deacon Cornhill was modest enough not to mention the fact that it had cost him nearly fifteen dollars to make up for their deficit. Withholding this fact, he demanded:
“Am I to understand that you are opposed to treating these poor people like neighbors, ’squire?”
“I’m opposed to nothing that’s humane, but you know there is a limit to what we can endure. I never was in favor of foreign immigration. What do you say, good folks?” appealing to those around him. “No doubt the good old deacon meant all right, but look at the crowd he has brought among us, and say if you want them.”
“Paupers, every one of them!” cried a voice from the crowd.
“Perhaps worse’n that,” declared another. “They look to me like a parcel of thieves!”
“Paupers and thieves!” exclaimed a dozen in the same breath, until Deacon Cornhill turned pale, as he felt that ominous results were likely to come from his well-meant intentions.
The little party of strangers huddled together in great trepidation, excepting their leading spirit, Ragged Rob, who had so gladly yielded to the counsel of their protector and lent his influence toward getting them here. Something of the spirit of the stern man for whom he had been nicknamed flashed in Little Hickory’s eyes, and drawing his figure to its full height with a dignity felt all the more for the ragged suit in which he was clothed, he exclaimed, in a tone heard to the limit of the scene:
“Paupers and thieves, never! We are poor, but we are willing to earn an honest living. Deacon Cornhill, if we are not wanted here——”
“Tut, tut, lad!” said the other, in an undertone, “this will soon blow over,” though he had his misgivings.
“You see how it is, deacon, and how the people feel,” said the ’squire, with a ring of triumph in his voice. “This settling so many city hoodlums in our midst is a risky experiment. For my part, I had rather my house should burn down than to have such people in it.”
“It would be pretty sure to if they were in it,” cried a zealous friend.
“I do not believe there is a house on the Hare road they could get.”
“No, no, no!” came from every quarter.
’Squire Hardy looked exultant, while Deacon Cornhill was dumfounded. No one had dared to speak a word in his behalf.
“What have you done, Elihu?” asked his wife, who had but a vague understanding of the situation.
“Don’t get ’scited, Mandy; it’ll soon blow over. Fri’nds,” he continued; addressing the crowd, “don’t misjudge your neighbors. These poor folks are all honest, as I am willing to vouch. Why, if it hadn’t been for this boy I shouldn’t have been living to come home. He not only saved my money, but my life, and I’ll stand by him now!”
“Good for you, deacon!” some one was bold enough to cry out, when a faint cheer followed. This encouraged him to resume:
“But if you don’t want these poor folks in your houses, I’ll look ’em up some places. They can stop at my place to-night. But here we are, keeping this sick man and woman here, to say nothing of the rest. I wish I had my two-hoss jingle wagon here, I swan, I do!”
At first no reply was made to this, but finally a farmer from the upper part of the town said:
“If you want to go arter your wagon, deacon, you may have my team to go with, only if you’ll leave a barrel of flour that is in the wagon at Widder Short’s.”
Deacon Cornhill gladly accepted this offer, and he lost no time in starting, saying, as he clambered into the high-backed seat:
“You can go with me if you want to, Rob.”
“I thank you, sir, but I had rather remain with mother and the rest. I think it will be best for me to do so.”
“If you please, mister, I would like to go,” said Chick.
“So you can, my boy; and you, too,” nodding to another, a year older than Chick, and known as Ruddy.
The boys were happy, but Deacon Cornhill was too deeply engrossed over the situation to pay much heed to his young companions, as he gathered up the reins and drove away from the station. This reception was very different from the triumphal entry into town of which he had anticipated.
“The ’squire is still ag’in me, and he means to make trouble,” he said, giving expression to his thoughts. “If he won’t let ’em go on the Hare road, they shall go somewhere. I have it! I’ll put ’em up to Break o’ Day; that’s just what I’ll do. Git along, old Jim! that’s just what I’ll do.”
So absorbed was the good man in his plans that he did not notice he had already got the raw-boned horse into a smart gait, so that the old wagon was drawn through the mud and over the rocks at a tremendous rate, giving the boys about all they could do to hold upon the high-backed seat, while the barrel of flour rolled about at the imminent risk of being sent from the vehicle altogether.
“The Break o’ Day is their only hope,” repeated the deacon, as he rode on.
So absorbed was the good man in his plans and his anxiety to get back to the station, that he failed to heed the tremendous speed he had urged the horse to take until by the time they had reached the outskirts of the village the spirited animal was flying along the country road at the top of its speed. The way was rough, and the wagon jolting over the stony places kept the barrel of flour in constant motion. In fact, an uncommonly severe movement sent one head flying out into the mud, and the white, fluffy mass within, caught up by the wind, flew about like a perfect cloud over the occupants of the vehicle.
“Ginger and snap!” cried Chick, who was enjoying the situation, “ain’t we spinning, Ruddy?”
“You bet! this is better’n the circus. Get up, old nag! If this is country life, it jess knocks the spots off’n New York at her best.”
The boys were enjoying the affair if the deacon was not. Then, in the midst of this wild flight, when it seemed as if the sober member of Basinburg church had really lost his head, those inhabitants of the village who had not gone to the station rushed out of their houses to see what was taking place.
Getting a vague outline of the deacon’s stalwart figure amid the cloud of flour, they began to cry out in dismay. This only served to arouse the deacon the more, and, swinging his long whip in the air, he shouted, louder than ever:
“Get erlong there, Jim Crow. It’s Break o’ Day or nothing!”
The old wagon, making a noise and confusion heard to the farthest section of the village, the half-crazed deacon and his young companions, who were shouting with laughter, were borne on at a wilder pace than ever. In the midst of this they passed the parsonage, when the horrified minister rushed out of the house, bareheaded and with outstretched arms, calling out to the horse to stop. Then, recognizing the form of his respected parishioner enveloped in the cloud of flour, he shouted, in amazement:
“Why, Deacon Cornhill! what has happened? Stop—stop—st——”
“It’s Break o’ Day or nothing, parson; snowstorm or no snowstorm! Get erlong, Jim!”
The old man barely saved himself from being run over, as the deacon and his companions were carried past, the latter crying out in the ears of the bewildered preacher:
“Did you ever get left on the pavements?”