CHAPTER VII
INTRODUCING “SQUARE” HOLT AND HIS OPINIONS
“SQUARE” HOLT, who was a justice of the peace as well as the judge of the probate court of the town, was a very tall and very angular individual with a massive development of nose (old Arad Tarr’s was as nothing beside it) and a wide mouth continually drawn into a grim line, as though such a thing as a smile had never crossed his imagination—if, indeed, he had an imagination.
He had no children of his own (which was an exceedingly fortunate thing for the unborn generations) and had apparently forgotten his own boyhood. Boys, in his estimation, were made to work—the harder the better. In this he was of the same opinion as Uncle Arad Tarr.
Old Arad was at once admitted to the front parlor of the house at which he had stopped, which was used by the judge as his office when he was not at the town hall. Here, seated in one of the prim hair cloth chairs, with which his soiled and badly fitting garments hardly harmonized, the old man told his story.
“That boy, square, comes o’ the shif’lessest kind o’ stock, ye know, ef his gran’father was my own brother,” he said, in conclusion. “You ’member Ezra?”
“Oh yes, I remember Ezra,” said the judge, grimly.
“Wal, then, ye know what a shif’less loose j’inted critter he was in business matters, an’ Anson an’ Horace was as like him as two peas aout o’ the same pod. An’ now this ’ere Brandon hez got th’ same traits o’ no ’count shif’lessness.”
“Very likely, very likely,” said the other, with sternness. “I’ve seen the youth, I think, out gunning quite frequently—a most objectionable practice.”
“Ye’re right, square,” old Arad exclaimed, with eagerness. “Jest er firin’ erway good powder an’ shot ’t cost money. Thet boy hez airnt money erhelpin’ of the neighbors lots o’ times, ter waste on powder an’ shot. He’s a dretful bad boy.”
“From what you say, neighbor,” said the judge, with confidence, “I should say that the proper place for the young rascal was the State reform school——”
“Oh, no, no, square,” exclaimed Arad, in sudden terror at the thought of losing Don’s services in this way. “’Tain’t as bad as that. I kin manage him, once give me legal ’thority.
“Ye see, his pa left him ’ithout a cent, an’ I thought it didn’t make a bit er diff’rance ’bout his havin’ a guardeen—’twould er been some expense, ye know, ter hev th’ papers made aout; but since he’s got this ’ere wild goose notion o’ leavin’ me, I begin ter see that I sh’d hev some holt on him fur—hem!—fur his own good, as it were.”
“Quite right,” declared the judge confidently. “And so the boy—this Brandon—proposes to go away at once, does he?”
“So he has th’ audacity ter tell me,” responded old Arad. “He declared he was goin’ termorrer mornin’. Ye know, square, I’m too broke up ’ith the rheumatiz ter tackle him as he’d orter be tackled. A good hidin’ would be th’ best thing fur him, in my ’pinion.”
“And in my opinion, too,” quoth the judge. “Now, of course this matter will have to be done when the court meets next week, Mr. Tarr; but I’ll come up and see the youth tonight, and I think that between us we can make him see that this is the place for him to stay, and that there is to be no running away from it,” and the judge shut his thin lips together very grimly.
“That’s it, square; thank ’ee,” said the old man, shambling out of the house. “Dretful weather we been havin’, ain’t it?”
Then he climbed into his wagon and drove back toward home, chuckling as he went.
“I reckon I’ve put a spoke in his wheel,” he muttered, referring to his nephew.
As he pursued his homeward way, however, thoughts of the sailor with whom he had so recently conversed, and of that conversation itself, filled his mind.
“I don’t persume thet ther’s anythin’ in it,” he muttered, thoughtfully stroking the wisp of beard on his pointed chin. “Horace Tarr never had no luck no-how, an’ I don’t see how he’d come ter know anythin’ erbout this ’ere treasure. P’r’aps that sailor was jest a yarnin’ ter me.”
Still, the old man could not drive the thought out of his mind.
“Fabulously rich!” he repeated. “That’s what he heard Horace say. This ’ere mate of the Silver Swan was a chum er Horace’s, like ’nough, an’ I s’pose if ther’ is anythin’ in it, he’ll jes’ try ter git it himself. An’ then—er—Brandon’ll never see a cent of it.
“It really is my duty ter look aout fur th’ boy’s int’rest,” continued the old hypocrite. “’F I’m goin’ ter be his guardeen, I’d orter know what’s goin’ on; an’ this may mean money fur—fur Brandon.”
He wiped his wrinkled brow with a soiled handkerchief, the reins lying idly on his knee the while. Somehow, despite the chilliness of the day, the perspiration stood in great drops upon his forehead.
“S’posin’,” he thought, “ther’ should be a letter at Sam Himes’ fur him now, f’om that Wetherbee feller? ’Twouldn’t no way do fur a boy ter git letters that his guardeen didn’t know nothin’ erbout, an’ ther’ ain’t no doubt thet, if Brandon got it, he wouldn’t show it ter me. I—I b’lieve I’ll drive ’round thet way an’ see.”
He touched up the mare again and, upon reaching the forks of the road, turned to the north once more and drove along the ridge until he reached a little gambrel roofed cottage on the westerly side of the highway.
This was the post office where Sam Himes held forth, and to which the lumbering old stage brought one mail each day.
Here he dismounted from the wagon again, and went into the house, being greeted at the door by the customary “Haow air ye?” of the postmaster.
“I was jes’ thinkin’ er sendin’ daown ter your haouse, Arad,” declared the postmaster, who was no respecter of persons, and called everybody by his first name, being familiar with them from the nature of his calling. “Here’s a letter fur yeou an’ one fur th’ boy—Don.”
He thrust two missives into the old man’s hand, and Arad stumbled out to his wagon again, his fingers shaking with excitement. Glancing at the two envelopes he recognized one at once, and clutched it avariciously. It was from a brokerage firm in New York, and contained his monthly dividend for certain investments which he had made.
The other letter, however, he did not look at until he had turned his horse about and started her jogging along toward home again. Then he drew forth the envelope and studied it carefully.
It was addressed in a big, scrawling hand to: “Master Brandon Tarr, Chopmist, Rhode Island,” yet, despite the plainness of the address, old Arad, after a hasty and half fearful glance around, broke the seal and drew forth the inclosed page.
He looked first at the signature, and finding it to be “Caleb Wetherbee,” he began to peruse the epistle, looking up from time to time to glance along the road, that nobody might catch him in the act of reading the letter intended only for his nephew’s eye.
Uncle Arad’s sight was not so keen for written words as it once had been, but he managed to stumble through the document, which read as follows:
NEW YORK MARINE HOSPITAL,
APRIL THE 2D, 1892.
MASTER BRANDON TARR,
SIR:—As I am laid up in dry dock, as you might say, and can’t get up to see you right off as I promised your poor father, I am taking the first chance these swabs of doctors have given me, to write this.
Me and another man was all that was saved off the raft, as you probably know now, for your father was hurt so bad that there wasn’t any chance for him. He died ten days after we left the brig.
I want you should pack up your togs, leave that farm where no son of Captain Horace Tarr ought to dig all his life, and come down here to New York to see me. I shall be out of this hospital before long, and then we’ve got some work to do, like I promised your father before he died.
Captain Tarr put some papers in my hands which is of great value, providing they can be used at once. It seems your uncle Anson died several months ago in Kimberley, South Africa, and while he was at Cape Town loading up the brig, a fellow come aboard and told your father about it, and brung these papers.
Among the papers (though the fellow didn’t know it, so I understood from the few words poor Captain Tarr let drop) was a package of diamonds which he hid aboard the old brig, and was afraid to take with him on the raft for fear of the sailors that was with us. These papers I’ve got he said would tell where the diamonds was hid. I ain’t opened them yet, so I don’t know.
Now you may think this here is no use because the Silver Swan is wrecked; but I don’t believe she has gone to pieces yet; nor your father didn’t think she would right off. We would have done better by sticking to her, any way, I reckon. She was driv upright onto the reef, and I’ll bet she’s sticking there yet.
If you come down here to once, and I can get onto my old timber leg again, we’ll charter a boat and go down there and see about it. If it is as your father said—and I believe it—there’s enough of them diamonds to make you another Vanderbilt or Jay Gould.
Just you leave the land shark of an uncle that you’re staying with, and trust yourself to
Your true friend,
CALEB WETHERBEE,
Mate of the Silver Swan.