CHAPTER VIII
SOMETHING ABOUT LEAVING THE FARM
CERTAINLY Uncle Arad Tarr had never been so filled with astonishment in his life as he was upon reading the letter of the mate of the Silver Swan to the captain’s son.
Diamonds enough to make Brandon a second Vanderbilt! The thought almost made Arad’s old heart stand still.
“Who’d er-thought it—who’d ever er-thought it?” he muttered weakly, folding the letter once more, and thrusting it into the pocket of his patched coat.
Then he picked up the reins and drove on, shaking his head slowly.
“Diamonds enough ter make him rich!” he murmured, with an avaricious contortion of his face. “Jest ter think o’ Anson Tarr ever gittin’ more’n his bread and butter. It don’t seem ter me he c’d ha’ got ’em honest.”
He was very ready now, considering the guilty thoughts there were in his own heart, to declare the fortune gained by his nephew Anson to be dishonestly obtained.
“It jest stands ter reason,” he went on, “that this ’ere Caleb Wetherbee isn’t er—er trustworthy person to hev charge o’ Brandon—or them di’monds either. I mus’ hev them papers made out jes’ as soon as th’ square kin do it, an’ then I kin find that ’ere wreck—er hev it found—m’self.”
His mind at once reverted to Jim Leroyd, the sailor with whom he had entered into a compact to “divide the spoils,” and he shook his head again doubtfully.
“He ain’t jes’ th’ man I’d er chosen ter do th’ work fur me,” muttered the old sinner; “but then, he’s the old sailor I know, an’ it’s got ter take a sailor, I s’pose, ter go ter them furrin parts.
“He knows suthin’ erbout it already, too, an’ it wouldn’t do ter let him git mad an’ go an’ tell this ’ere Wetherbee; then mebbe I couldn’t git th’ papers from him. But th’ fust thing is ter hev thet ’p’intment as guardeen fixed up.”
Brandon was in the yard when he arrived, and good naturedly put up the horse for him.
“I’ve seen Mrs. Hemingway, uncle,” he said cheerfully, “and she’ll be up here tomorrow morning. I shall take the stage to town in the morning, and go to New York on the evening train, I guess.”
“Ye will, eh?” returned Uncle Arad, showing his teeth.
“Yes. Now you mustn’t get uppish, uncle. You didn’t suppose I would stay here very long any way, did you?”
“I s’pect ye’ll stay here a spell,” replied the old man, with a cunning leer. “I ain’t fed an’ su’ported ye in lux’ry fur nigh four year fur nothin’. Ye’ll stay here as my ward fur yer minor’ty, now I tell ye.”
But Brandon was laughing over the thought of Uncle Arad’s “luxury,” and did not hear the last of his speech.
He did the most of the chores about the house and barn, as was usual, and helped prepare the extremely frugal meal which Uncle Arad’s larder afforded.
“By George!” he thought, as he set about this latter task, “if I was in the forecastle of some old ‘hooker’ I shouldn’t have worse fare than this. I declare I’ll go off tomorrow before breakfast. This will be my last meal at Uncle Arad’s table for one spell at least.”
But he said nothing further about going away, knowing that it would only anger the old man. Before the dishes were cleared away after the meal, there was the sound of wheels at the gate, and in a moment somebody knocked sharply.
Old Arad himself arose and hobbled to the door, admitting “Square” Holt into the miserable den of a kitchen. If it had been the President himself, the old man would not have opened the “best room.”
“Go aout an’ take the square’s boss ’roun’ ter the shed,” harshly commanded Uncle Arad, and Brandon did as he was bidden, vaguely suspecting that something was brewing.
When he came into the kitchen again after doing the errand, the parrot beaked judge was ready for him.
“Young man,” began the judge severely, “your uncle, Mr. Tarr, who has done so much for you for the past four years, tells me that you have made a sorry return for all his kindness and bounty.”
“In what?” demanded Brandon rather sharply, for he considered this interference on the justice’s part as wholly uncalled for.
“Is that the way you speak to your elders, young man?” cried the judge, aghast. “Have you no respect for gray hairs?”
“I do not see why I should respect you, Mr. Holt,” replied Don, with some temper. “You’ve never given me cause to and I consider that your questions and remarks are entirely unwarranted. I propose to go away from my uncle’s house (to whom, by the way, my father paid three dollars per week board for me up to last fall, and for whom I have done the work of a regularly hired hand during most of the time I have been here) I propose to go away, I say, and nothing you or uncle can say will stop me!”
“Hoighty toighty, young man!” cried the judge; “do you realize to whom you are speaking?”
“Yes, I do,” responded Brandon hotly. “To one who is known, far and wide, as the meanest man in Scituate!”
The judge’s ample nasal organ flushed to the color of a well grown beet; but before he could reply old Arad put in his oar:
“What d’ye mean, ye little upstart?” (Fancy his calling Brandon little, who already stood a good three inches taller than himself!) “What d’ye mean, sayin’ that I was ever paid fur yer keep? Ye’ve been nuthin’ but an expense an’ trouble ter me ever since ye come here.”
“That’s an untruth, and you know it,” declared Don, who had quite lost his temper by this time, and did not behave himself in just the manner I should have preferred my hero to behave; but Brandon Tarr was a very human boy, and, I have found, heroes are much like other folks and not by any means perfect.
“Young man, mark my words!” sputtered “Square” Holt, “you will yet come to some bad end.”
“I’ll git all this aout o’ ye, afore I’m done with ye, Brandon Tarr,” declared Uncle Arad, “if I hev ter hire somebody ter lick ye.”
“You wouldn’t do that—you’re too stingy to hire anybody to ‘lick’ me,” responded Don tartly. “Now I don’t propose to listen to any more of this foolishness. I’m going away, and I’m going away tomorrow morning. I’ve eaten my last meal at this house, Uncle Arad!”
“Is that the way to speak to your guardian?” said the judge, with horror in his tone. “Mr. Tarr, you are too lenient with this young scoundrel. He should be sent to the State reform school as I suggested.”
“But then I wouldn’t get no work aout o’ him,” the farmer hastened to say. “I—I’ve got ter git the money back I’ve spent on him, ye know.”
Brandon laughed scornfully.
“I should like to know by what right you call him my guardian, Mr. Holt?” he asked.
“Wal, I’m goin’ ter be yer guardeen—right off,” Arad hastened to inform him, before the “square” could reply. “The square’s goin’ ter make the papers aout ter oncet.”
“They’ll be funny looking documents, I reckon,” said Don, in disgust. “I understand that Mr. Holt has done several pretty crooked things since he’s been in office, but this is going a little too far.”
“Young man!” cried the judge, trying to wither the audacious youth with a glance.
But Don didn’t “wither” at all.
“If you know anything at all about law,” he said to the judge, with sarcasm, “you know that a guardian can’t be appointed in an hour. Legal notice must be given and reason shown why a guardian should be appointed. I’ve no property, and Uncle Arad only wants to control me so as to have my work. And, besides all that, I am old enough to choose my own guardian, and you can bet your last cent that I shouldn’t choose Arad Tarr.”
“It ain’t so! ’tain’t no sich thing, is it, square?” cried old Arad, in alarm. “Ain’t I th’ proper person to be ’p’inted over my own nevvy? Ther’ ain’t nobody else got anythin’ ter do with it.”
“He can tell you what he likes,” responded Brandon quickly; “but I’ve given you the facts. Now I’ve heard enough of this, and I’m going to bed.” Then he added, turning to Holt: “When you go out to fleece a lamb next time, Mr. Holt, be pretty sure that the lamb is just as innocent as you think it.”
He turned away without another word then and left the kitchen, mounting to his bedroom in the second story of the old house, leaving the baffled conspirators in a state of wrathful bewilderment.