Mitch Miller Part 10

Zueline warn't doin' anything except just to be Zueline to Mitch--she wasn't as much in love with Mitch as he was with her.

Then grandpa came in and said we'd all go to Bobtown the next day, that his spring wagon was done and we'd go over and get it. It was an awful ways, eighteen miles at least, and we'd have to start by six o'clock in order to get there and get back, and take a lunch to eat on the way. I suppose I had heard as much about Bobtown as any place in the world, but never seen it. It was just in a straight line from the porch at grandpa's, past Spotty Milt St.i.th's place, and just in the place between the woods and where the sky came down beyond. So the next mornin' we was off--grandpa and ma settin' in the front seat of the carriage; and me, grandma and Myrtle in the back seat. And ma began right away to talk about Petersburg, they agreed about hard drink and a lot of things.

But grandpa said that he'd been in the war and had seen two, and he'd like to see war abolished with slavery and hard drink. He was in the Black Hawk War, but that wasn't much; but the Mexican War was bad and warn't necessary, and was unjust, even Linkern thought so, and had stirred up a lot of hate. And he said the Civil War had left things bad.

It had killed off a lot of fine young men, and herded toughs into places like Petersburg and stirred up all kinds of hate and bad feelin's, and made people dishonest and tricky and careless and lazy--and we'd have to stand the consequences for years to come in politics and everything. And he said the way to avoid war was the same as a man would avoid fightin'

or killin' another man--you could do it mostly by usin' your mind and bein' a civilized being and not standin' too much on your pride and all that. But if you couldn't avoid it, then fight and fight hard.

It was pretty near eleven o'clock and we came in sight of a white steeple and white houses, right amongst green trees--and sure enough it was Bobtown. I was so excited I could hardly stand it. And I said: "It's a downright shame that Mitch ain't here. He never saw Bobtown, and he's there in Petersburg waitin' for me, and here I am havin' this wonderful trip." We were just in a little grove, and grandpa stopped and unreined the horses and fed 'em and said, "We'll have our lunch here." "Oh," says I, "let's go on to Bobtown first." Grandpa laughed, for he knew I was wild to go on. But he said, "By and by." So we spread the tablecloth on the gra.s.s and had the lunch--and it was wonderful, fried chicken and blackberry pie and about everything. Then we drove into Bobtown. Here was a drug store, and a post-office and a billiard parlor, and a saloon kept by Porky Jim Thomas, grandpa said; and a lot of white houses, and a big store, and this wagon shop which was also a blacksmith shop. We separated now. Grandma and ma and Myrtle went to the store, and grandpa and me to the wagon shop.

The wagon maker was a big man with bushy hair and he was tickled to death to see my grandpa. The wagon was all done, all except puttin' in a few bolts. It shone like a lookin' gla.s.s, all varnished up with pretty pictures on the sides, and the man said it would be ready in an hour. So grandpa said he'd go to see a man about the temperance work, and I could go with him or stay around. So I stayed to see the wagon finished.

I hadn't noticed a man sittin' on a bench in the shop and whittlin'; but when grandpa was gone, he said to the blacksmith, "Ain't that Squire Kirby?" (they called grandpa squire because he had been Justice of the Peace onct); and the blacksmith said "yes"; and the man said: "I suppose he's sincere. I suppose so, but that ain't the whole story. He gets used by people who ain't sincere, who want law about temperance, but don't want it about somethin' else. It's a h.e.l.l of a country," he went on, "everybody is talkin' about law and about enforcin' the law, and everybody is breakin' the law himself. Take Porky Jim Thomas, they make an awful fuss about his sellin' to habituals or anything, and look at it: who sells Porky Jim adulterated stuff, who allows it to be sold to him? Are the revenue agents obeyin' the law? No, they ain't. Go right down the list. Congress don't obey the law--they don't obey the const.i.tution. Yet they're always talkin' law and denouncin' law breakers. Do the judges obey the law? No, they don't--they talk about it and make other folks obey what they say is the law. And everywhere you go you hear about law breakers from people breakin' the law themselves--they're all breakin' it, and them that's highest is breakin'

it most--and it's just like ants climbin' over each other--that's what it's like--and it ain't worth a d.a.m.n. Look what the city folks do to the farmers. And take the mine owners--they don't obey the law, they don't prop their ceilin's and protect their men as the law says. And now they're goin' to strike over at Springfield, and you hear talk of the law and they're goin' to call out the guards. And look at me--losin' my farm through the law--just look anywhere you want and you'll see the same thing--everybody hollerin' law and n.o.body obeyin' it himself."

"Lem," said the blacksmith, "you've been mad ever since the war."

"Wal, ain't I got a right to be? Here I was just a young feller and hated slavery and loved liberty, and I was one of the first to volunteer. Yes, sir, I went right into Petersburg when Cap Estil was recruitin' and joined the army and me not more'n seventeen, and all because I wanted to help free the country and put down rebellion, and serve G.o.d. Yes, that's what a boy says to hisself, 'G.o.d and my country.'

You get into kind of a religion. Wal, what happened? They treat a soldier worse'n a dog--they feed you like a dog and sleep you like a dog. And they order you in danger worse'n a dog. What in h.e.l.l are you, anyway? Here you are, we'll say, with a couple of hundred, and the captain thinks that by sacrificing a couple of hundred, he can do somethin', turn a certain trick. It's like checkers, you make a sacrifice to get into the king's row and come back stronger and clean up the board. That's how I got it. They ordered us in when it was death to go, and I got it through the lung, and here I am, no good to this here day."

"Lem," says the blacksmith, "you talk like a democrat."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Like a Piece of Licorice]

"Wal, I ain't no democrat. I ain't nothin'. How can a man be anything?

Look at what they did. Look at the way the stay-at-homes made money.

Look at the grabs in the country, look at the money scandals, look at the poor, look at the fellers goin' around in the name of the army gettin' themselves elected to office. Just look at the country. Look at me with just enough pension to keep body and soul together, and tryin'

to grub out a little farm. Why, look here, if the next generation knew what we know about war, how they get it up, and how they get the young fellers into it, and what it means after they get into it, you couldn't get 'em into a war. That's the way to stop war. Pa.s.s the word along, so the young fellers that can fight will know what they're a takin' a hold of--and they won't fight. You can't burn a child that knows the fire.

These here pot-bellies that sit in banks, and these here loud-mouthed orators that make speeches and say they wished they could go to war, it's their only regret that they can't go, and die with the flag in their hands--these fellers, d.a.m.n 'em, can't make any headway if the boys are on to the game. And, by G.o.d, furst thing you know they ain't anybody to do the fightin' but the pot-bellies and the orators who want to die but are too old to carry a gun, and so go around lamentin' their age, the furst thing you know, n.o.body is left but 'em to fight. And then there won't be no war, because they wouldn't fight. They are too careful of their precious selves, and too afraid of h.e.l.l, and have got over believin' in G.o.d, or country, except the price of corn and cotton, and so that ends war. And that's the way to end it, pa.s.s the word along."

So he went on talkin' and the blacksmith was makin' a rod and he took it out of the forge and put it on the anvil and it sputtered sparks, and he pounded it around, and finally he took a chisel and cut off a piece, and I watched it grow from dull red till it got black and looked like a piece of licorice. So I went and picked it up. Gee! but it just cooked my fingers, and I yelled. "Thar's your lesson," says Lem--"remember it.

Don't take hold of a hot thing till it gets cold. Thar's your lesson, remember that as long as you live."

But I was cryin' and my grandpa came in and when he heard Lem talk, he said Lem had been drinkin', poor feller, and was another victim of the awful curse of drink. So he took me to the drug store and got somethin', and by and by I was better and so we drove home to the farm.

CHAPTER XVII

It was only Tuesday, and the days just dragged by. It seemed Sat.u.r.day was a year off, when I was to see Mitch. I was out in the front yard about nine o'clock and all the rest was in the house. My uncle came along and began to sharpen a scythe on the grinder and I was turnin' it for him. I was teasin' him to go to the river and fish and camp out over night. He said it was too hot, and besides we needed another man, and Willie Wallace was gone, and he couldn't get Bud Entrekin to go until he'd hauled some corn. By and by he got the scythe sharp and went away to cut weeds. While I was standin' there wonderin' what to do, I heard a low whistle and looked over the fence and there was Mitch. He didn't look very gay. He was covered with dust, had been walkin' since early mornin'. He scrooched down behind the fence and whispered to me to come over into the orchard. We got down in the gra.s.s by a tree, first lookin'

for snakes, and then Mitch said: "How much money you got?" I said, I thought I could get two dollars anyway, and he said, "That's bully, I've got 80 cents and that's enough." "What you goin' to do, Mitch, you're not goin' to see Tom now, are you?" Says he: "The time has come. Go get your money and we'll start right now."

He almost scared me, he was so quick and earnest. Then he said, "I've got somethin' on my mind, a good deal on my mind. The time has come to go. There's nothin' left but Old Salem, and we can finish that any time--and let's go now and see Tom before anything else happens. Pretty soon the summer'll be over, and things keep happenin'. We must go now."

So he made me go to the house for my money. I had to ask grandma for it, and at first she wouldn't give it to me. She said I'd lose it. But I teased her till she went to her closet and gave it to me. Then said she: "You never let a body alone when you start. So here it is, and if you lose it--you lose it."

I went back to the tree in the orchard where Mitch was. Then we walked clear to the back of the orchard, clumb the rail fence, walked through the meadow a roundabout way and came to the road on the other side of the Tate farm. So here we struck out for Atterberry, so as to walk the railroad to Havaner. We thought we could make Oakford before night.

When we got fairly started Mitch said, "Something terrible has happened to me, Skeet--it's terrible."

"What?" says I.

"I can't talk about it now," says Mitch. "By and by I can, maybe. Of course I'll tell you--I must tell some one. But it's that made me come out here and see you, and not wait for Sat.u.r.day. I just had to see you; and it seemed the time had just come for us to go to see Tom."

I says: "Well, Mitch, you know me, and if I can do anything, you know I'll do it. And maybe you'd better tell me right now."

"Well," says Mitch, "there's more'n one thing to tell--and both of 'em had somethin' to do with me comin' to-day. I couldn't stand the town another minute. I had to get away."

So we walked on and didn't get a lift or anything, and about eleven we came to Atterberry. We went into the store to get a bottle of pop, and while we was there, the train whistled, and the store-keeper says, "That's number 2. She's on time."

You never see such luck. We went out and the freight train pulled in and there was Willie Wallace. Well, he was that glad to see me. Here he was with gloves on and a cap with a silver label which said "Brakeman," and he was the happiest man you ever see.

I began to think what to say. We wanted to ride, but where was we goin', and did our folks know it? If we told him we was runnin' away to see Tom Sawyer, maybe he wouldn't let us on the train. So I began to play safe.

I told him Mitch and me was goin' to Havaner to see my pa who was there, and come back with him to-morrow. Then I took out my two dollars and showed him, and says, "That's for my fare, and Mitch has money, too."

Willie Wallace says: "You don't need no fare--just crawl up in the cupola of the caboose, and it will be all right. I owe your grandpap a lot for what he did for me in times past--and I'll pay part of it by lettin' you ride."

Then Willie walked away to go into the depot; and Mitch says, "Derned if I'm not proud of you, Skeet. That was a bully whack--and we've struck it rich. Our luck has turned at last."

We climbed up into the cupola and took seats, swingin' seats they was--and we could see all over the country--clean down to the woods where the river was, and over the fields far away. And pretty soon we was off, goin' like mad.

"What do you think of this?" says I.

"Why, Skeet," says Mitch, "did Tom Sawyer ever have anything like this?

He never did. And come to think of it, was there a railroad in Tom's town? He never speaks of one. And n.o.body ever goes anywhere, except to c.o.o.nville, which maybe was as far from Tom's town as Atterberry from your grandpa's farm. Say, this is wonderful."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Willie Wallace Lets Us Ride]

And Mitch took off his hat and let the wind blow through his sweaty hair. It was a wonderful day, and here we was, whizzin' right through the country, lookin' down on the fields, and goin' so fast that blackbirds flyin' alongside of us got way behind and couldn't keep up.

Then we could whirl around in our chairs and look through the windows of the cupola all around the country.

We got to Oakford by and by and looked down on the men and boys standing by the depot, their hands in their pockets, chewin' tobacco, whittlin', jostlin' each other, laughin' and all that. Then the conductor came out of the depot with tissue papers in his hand and gave the signal and we started off. At Kilburn we did some switchin', put on a car with cattle in it. And here the conductor saw us for the first time.

He started to come up in the cupola and the first thing he says was, "Fares, please." "How much?" says I. "Where you goin'?" says he. "To Havaner," I says. "Where did you get on?" "At Atterberry," I says. I began to look for Willie Wallace, but he warn't anywhere around. Then the conductor says, "One dollar." I pulled a dollar out and handed it to him. Then he turned to Mitch and says, "You goin' to Havaner, too?"

Mitch says, "Yes, sir." "One dollar, please," says the conductor. Mitch didn't have it--he only had 80 cents. So I gave my other dollar to the conductor, and he climbed into the cupola and stayed a bit and then climbed down and went away sommers.

Mitch says, "Well, that about cleans us out. We've got just 80 cents now between us. I thought Willie Wallace was your friend."

"He is," says I, "but I never met this here conductor before."

"It looks like it," says Mitch. "And now who knows what this will do to us? Suppose we have to pay our fare on the boat? That means we'll have to lay over long enough in Havaner to earn the money. One thing sometimes leads to another."

Just then Willie Wallace came through the caboose, and the train stopped. I looked out and saw we was alongside a corn-crib--nothin'

else; but we began to back on to a switch, and pretty soon stopped. And now it was so still that you could hear the crickets chirp in the gra.s.s.

It was a lonely country here--flat and sandy. Mitch and I got down and went to the back platform to see what Willie Wallace was doin'. He was standin' by the switch. And pretty soon the pa.s.senger train came whizzin' by. And what do you suppose? There stood pa on the back platform of the last car, smokin' a cigar and talkin' to a man.

We backed up and started on. Willie Wallace came into the caboose. Here we was in a pickle. If I complained to Willie Wallace about the conductor takin' two dollars for our fare, I was afraid he'd say, "Look here, what's your pa doin' on that train goin' back to Petersburg? You ain't goin' to Havaner to meet him--you're runnin' off--that's what you are. And I'll put you off here and you can walk back, or I'll take you to Havaner and give you over to the police." So I was afraid and I began to edge.

Says I: "What time does that train get to Petersburg, Willie?"