  “Always a seat for another, Providin’ we squeeze ’em tight; Stampin’ in from the smother, For ’tis snowin’ hard to-night. Time for a bit o’ smokin’, Time for another tale, Time for a little jokin’, Waitin’ here for the mail.” —Ballad of “The Grocery Store.” I think there’s more git-up and ginger in a fife and drum,” said Uncle Lysimachus Buck. He had cocked his ear to listen. Then he held his cane beside his lips and fingered imaginary stops. The windows of Hobbs’s hall, across the street from Asa Brickett’s store, shed their yellow gleams out upon the crisp winter night. A band rehearsal was going on there. The loafers who hovered about the stove in the store could hear the voice of the leader haranguing his men, then the robust attack on the tune—bass horns bellowing “oomp-pah oomps,” cornets blaring and clarinets wailing; then the false note, the wavering in the melody and the sharp command of a voice, at which the music shredded out into jargon and ceased. More harangue and away they all went again from the start! “If the dummed calves ever git so they can play a whole piece to once it will be wuth while list’nin’,” growled Marriner Amazeen, settling down once more to his whittling, after he had cocked his ear for a time. “Near’s I can find out, Hime ain’t lettin’ ’em practise nothin’ but them high-diddle-diddle circus tunes,” observed Uncle Buck. “Now, you take a fife and drum in ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me,’ or a good fiddler in ‘The Devil’s Dream’ or ‘Miss McCloud’s Reel,’ or even an accordion in ‘Alice, Where Be Ye?’ and, by swanny, you’ve got the real old ear-ticklers. But this squeaky-weaky, biff, bang, boom stuff ain’t music no more’n poundin’ on a tin wash-boiler is.” But when Brickett began knocking a soap box into pieces for firewood, Uncle Buck bawled at him angrily. “Band tootlin’ don’t keep me warm,” said Brickett, as he stuffed the fuel into the stove. “Any time my system of runnin’ things in this store don’t suit the loafers, said loafers know what they can do.” “Ain’t no need of goin’ ’round makin’ noise jest for the sake of makin’ it,” replied Buck. “Then you whistle whilst I pound boxes,” said the storekeeper, grinning, “and p’raps it’ll remind you of a fife and drum.” “Shet up a little while, won’t ye, now?” asked Micajah Dunham, wistfully. “Here I drive clear in from my place on band-practisin’ nights so’s to git a little music, and you run your clack so that a feller can’t hear.” He sat on the edge of a box, his purchases heaped in his lap, his fur cap on the floor in order that the earlappers might not obstruct his hearing. “Here’s a piece now that they play well,” he added, with the air of conviction of one who had followed faithfully the work of the new Palermo band. The men around the stove listened, Uncle Buck tapping his cane appreciatively. “There! Ain’t that good?” sighed Dunham as the band came down the homestretch and wound up the selection in a fine burst of melody. “I guess there ain’t no doubt but what Wat Mayo is hunky-dory as a musicianer,” agreed Amazeen. “I hear that the Port boys are gittin’ up a band, and they’re even talkin’ of one over to Newry Gore, and are goin’ to have Wat to teach both of ’em. I s’pose it’s all right for him to spend his time that way and earn a dollar, but it don’t seem much like man’s work to me.” “I s’pose you think the only real bus’ness a man ought to foller is to raise pertaters and fat shotes?” sarcastically observed Dunham. “I tell ye, I admire the Mayo boy’s spunk in makin’ something out of himself instead of a day-labourer. You can’t fit square pegs into round holes. He’s been woke up and put into the job that he fits. Now he’ll amount to some thing. Folks gen’rally amount to something when they git woke up—if it ain’t too late,” he added with a sigh. He snuggled his heap of parcels together on his knees. “I ought to be goin’ home,” he said, half to himself. “But, I swan, I’d like to hear one more tune.” “You seem to be livin’ pretty well nowadays out to your house,” remarked Uncle Buck, with a sly look at the bundles. “’Tain’t no more than bringin’ up the gen’ral av’rage, when you think of what we’ve missed to our house,” was Dunham’s stout rejoinder. He was ready nowadays to meet fearlessly the malicious thrusts of his old neighbours, with his new gospel of life. The music recommenced again across the street. This time the band was playing an accompaniment for a cornet solo by its leader. The notes, dulcet in the distance, seemed almost phrasing a song. Dunham’s eyes moistened with the sudden emotion of his simple nature. “I know you all have a good deal of fun behind my back about the way I’ve shifted over,” he said, quietly. “I know that it makes you laugh to hear me go ’round preachin’ about gittin’ a little something out of life as you go along. I don’t care if you do laugh. Laugh! The more ye laugh, the less you’ll growl. But me and my wife has woke up, and we don’t care who knows it, and if some of the rest of you would wake up, too, you’d find that the only thing the sun shines for ain’t to raise crops and make freckles.” “P’raps if all of us could git holt of a ready-made, grown-up daughter, as good as the one you’ve got, we might improve some,” said Buck, with a wink at his associates in “hector.” “P’raps you could,” Dunham answered, simply and earnestly. “Well, it makes a pretty good berth for a poor girl, ’Caje,” said a man behind the stove. “Most anyone would like to be adopted into a fam’ly like yours.” “It ain’t that way, neighbours,” Dunham said softly, his face in the direction of the music. “When we adopted ’Liza Haskell we was gettin’ the best end of the bargain, if ye want to put it on that kind of a basis. We was both all corners before—sharp corners at that. I ain’t backward about ownin’ up—we f’it, me and Esther, like fury, and we didn’t know what was the matter with us. But somehow there don’t seem to be any corners in our house now. Them that ain’t filled with new chairs and pictur’s is all full o’ sunshine. There ain’t a room in the house that looks like it used to—with the furniture standin’ round jest as though it had been used at a funeral last and was where the undertaker arranged it. We didn’t know what the matter was, I say—me and Esther didn’t. We don’t know jest how it’s come about nov. But we do know that we’ve adopted something besides a poor little girl—we’ve adopted sunshine and sweetness and comfort and new notions about livin’ and lovin’ and havin’.” He stood up and piled his parcels upon his arm. “That’s the way it is to our house nowadays, neighbours. I used to like to set here the whole ev’nin’ in the store before—but now—well, when I git to thinkin’ about how home is, why, it takes more than them pretty tunes to hold me here. There’s music to our house that’s better than all the brass bands in the world.” He went out and they heard the jingle of his sleigh-bells threading through the mellow notes of the cornet. “He was allus sort of a soft old fool when you got under his shell,” scoffed Uncle Buck, grinding his cane against the rusty stove. “What I can’t understand is how Esther ever come ’round as she did. I allus thought she was harder’n nails.” “Oh, it took Squire Phin to warm her ear-wax,” said Amazeen. “And when you know how to handle a woman like that, why, you’ve got her—that’s all. I cal’late there ain’t a man in the county that understands human natur’ better’n Squire Phin does. He can handle ’em all right when he makes up his mind to.” Uncle Buck was plainly nettled by Amazeen’s air of easy confidence. “Well, there’s one woman that he don’t seem to be able to handle—and I reckon he’d like to at that,” he snorted. “Sylvene Willard ain’t hardly spoke to him since he knocked her feller down.” “I don’t cal’late as how you’ve got any right to call King Bradish her feller,” objected Amazeen. “I donno why not,” snapped Uncle Buck. “Jedge Willard come right out after that happened and said that Sylvene and King was goin’ to git married at Christmas time, and Sylvene didn’t dispute him. It’s past Christmas time now, to be sure, but as I understand it, King is tied up in New York by bus’ness and ain’t been able to git back since he went away a little spell ago.” “Little spell ago!” cried Amazeen. “He ain’t been back since he went away that time in the fall when Hime’s el’phunt got loose.” “Mebbe, but time slides away kind o’ fast,” grudgingly admitted Buck. “Howsomever, they’ll git married all right when he comes back. If Coll Willard says so, then they will, that’s all! Phin Look can’t stop it. His cake was dough when he licked Bradish.” “As I’ve allus understood the row, King had the right of it,” observed the man behind the stove. “Why, the Jedge himself told me,” said Buck, “that all King done in the world was to step up to the Squire and call him into line for braggin’ round how he’d cut out King the night before and walked home with Sylvene from the schoolhouse out Dunham’s way. Jedge told me so himself. That’s comin’ pretty straight!” “Well, now, that don’t seem like Squire Phin Look,” broke in Amazeen, wagging his head decisively. “I’ve heard that version, but it don’t seem like Squire Phin—and we’ve known him a long time, too.” “He ain’t ever given the lie to the Jedge,” said Buck. “He ain’t ever said aye, yes or no about it. Nat’rally think, then, he must be ashamed of it, wouldn’t ye? I tell ye, boys, when there’s a woman in the case we don’t none of us know what the best of us might do. Squire Phin Look is an almighty nice man, good and kind-hearted and smarter’n a whip. I’ve allus stood up for him, and I was in the scheme——” He checked himself suddenly in some confusion with a side glance at Amazeen. “I was in hopes that the match wouldn’t come off with Bradish. But the Squire went and lost his head and kicked up—-like the best do sometimes when there’s a woman in the case. Sylvene Willard ain’t the woman to stand that kind of bus’ness. You can’t blame her. I say she and Bradish will git married, and you can mark my word on it.” A man sat on a bit of board that was laid across an unheaded keg of nails. He had been listening, elbows on his knees, his brown hands braiding and unbraiding a length of rope with a sailor’s deftness. This man was Mate Seekins of the A. P. Bristol, home in Palermo for his midwinter lay-off. “What do they hear here in town from Bradish?” he inquired. There was a suppressed note of meaning in his voice that the little crowd did not catch. The men about the stove looked at each other. “Nothin’,” at last blurted Uncle Buck. “What bus’ness is he a-follerin’ of in New York?” asked Seekins. “As near’s I’ve ever come to it,” said Buck, “him and the Jedge is in some kind of financierin’ together and King’s handlin’ that end of it. But the Jedge don’t put his bus’ness into the Seaside Oracle and King ain’t the kind that writes letters to be read out loud here in Ase’s store,” he added grimly. “I s’pose his mother hears reg’lar and the Jedge and Sylvene, but the Bradishes and the Willards never messed in very thick with their neighbours. Sum and substance is, we don’t know not the first dum thing about King Bradish nor his bus’ness, nor why he closed up bus’ness here in the hurry that he did and got out of the place. And I donno as I care. I never had no use for the skunk, anyway.” He pared a corner from a black plug of tobacco, stuck it into his cheek and relapsed into dignified silence. The man on the keg braided at his rope-end. “I shouldn’t want him to do no gre’t amount of financierin’ for me,” he said at last. “Bradish, I mean.” “I donno ’bout that,” Amazeen said. “He was allus pretty sharp on a dicker ’round here.” “I say I shouldn’t want him to do my financierin’ for me,” persisted Mate Seekins. The group waited for him to go on, but he kept at his braiding. “Well, you’ve gone that fur. Keep on,” commanded Uncle Buck. “I ain’t no hand to peddle gossip,” said Seekins. “Who said ye was?” Lysimachus’s tone was indignant. “And there ain’t no. call for you to hint that we’re gossips here. If you ain’t man enough to dast to say what you know, then keep still and much good may it do you.” But the old man’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Half truths are wusser’n whole lies,” he muttered. “I ain’t no hand to talk and tell,” went on Seekins, “but when I say I don’t want him to financier for me I mean to say that I don’t want any man handlin’ my money that keeps drunk as a fiddler’s hoorah.” The music from across the street bellowed in louder blast, for the store door opened with a bang and Hiram Look came stamping in. “Do me up a slab of cheese and plenty of crackers, Colonel Brickett,” he called. “Wider’n that,” he snapped as Brickett set his knife on the cheese. “Look’s Cornet Brass Band ain’t eatin’ no half rations so long as old Hime himself is on hand to buy for ’em.” He beamed on the circle of faces about the stove, for the inspiration of his favourite tunes made him genial. “How does that sound to you, old turkles?” he cried, with a backward jab of his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Hobbs’s hall. “It’s sort of wakin’ up Palermo, hey?” “I suppose it will be good enough when they can play without soundin’ like bullfrogs with the croup,” returned Uncle Buck, sulkily. Hiram had come in at just the time when he had edged forward to put some leading questions to Mate Seekins. He turned to the sailor again. “You was sayin’——” he began. “You never heard nothin’ in your life before but a melodeon and a jew’s harp, you old Fiji,” shouted Hiram, thrusting forward close to the stove. “There’s about a half dozen of you old mossbacks that ain’t come to enough to appreciate what I’m doin’ for this place. But I’ve got the crowd with me. I’ll show ye in town meeting next March! I can run that band myself, so fur’s that comes to; but I’m goin’ to make some of you old hogs of taxpayers chip in to support it. I’m goin’ to have an article put in appropriating two hundred dollars for band concerts next summer, and I’ll carry it through.” “This town won’t vote for no such dum foolishness,” retorted Buck. He turned to Seekins again, his curiosity mastering his spirit of controversy. “You was sayin’ as how——” “Bet you fifty, and put the money in Brickett’s hands right now,” bellowed Hiram, ever eager for opportunities to browbeat the old men of the village. He dug into his trousers pocket. “Why don’t you wear that wad o’ money hung round your neck out in plain sight?” demanded Uncle Lysimachus, angrily. “You seem bound and determined to have it under our noses all the whol’ time.” “Put up your stuff,” cried Hiram. “Make a pool if ye want to. I ain’t afraid of the gang of you.” He whirled and ran his hale eye along their faces. Dow Babb, who had been chief of the Palermo hand-tub brigade for many years, unhooked his toe from his instep, recrossed his legs and said with decision: “You can’t run the whole of this town, Hime, even if you are runnin’ a part of it jest now. You wait your turn with your brass band. I’ve been before town meetin’ for four years, now, a-askin’ and implorin’ the voters to appropriate enough to repair Hecla and buy some more hose. They ain’t give me a cent. Now if you go to work and bull through any such article in the warrant as you’re braggin’ you will, then all I’ve got to say is that the next time a fire breaks out in the village, your darned old band can go and play on it. The Hecla comp’ny never will.” Uncle Buck, unable to control himself any longer, got up and pounded his cane on the floor. “I’ve heard all the tow-rowin’ I want to hear. Here I be tryin’ to talk with Mr. Seekins about something that amounts to something. And ye can’t hear yourself think. Take your cheese and your crackers, Hime Look, and go over and stuff ’em into your toodle-oodlers. Let gentlemun that’s a-talkin’ serious bus’ness go on with their serious bus’ness. Now, Seekins, you said as how you’d seen King Bradish drunker’n a fiddler’s hoorah. What else?” “I never said I seen him,” returned the man, sullenly. “It’s the same thing; you meant it. Go ahead.” The old man’s tone was imperious. Hiram and the rest of the crowd turned to him, inquiry on their faces. The showman leaned forward with especial insistence. “I ain’t no hand to tattle——” “You said that before, consarn ye!” This persistent delay that baffled Uncle Buck’s curiosity made him furious. “No matter what you see or what you didn’t see,” said Hiram. “The idea is, what do you know?” There was no resisting the force of circumstances. “Well,” roared Seekins, “I know that King Bradish is keepin’ full of licker in New York and throwin’ money right and left and over his shoulder—or has been so long’s he had it to throw. He’s gone to Tophet, that’s what he’s done, and if what I hear up at the other end is true, he’s got a string hitched to certain parties in this place and he’s goin’ to drag ’em with him. Now that’s all you’re goin’ to git out of me,” he concluded, throwing the rope-end into the wood-box and rising. “I don’t propose to git into no trouble by talkin’ and tellin’. I’ve seen people that done that. If any’s interested, let ’em go to New York and to the right people and they’ll find out for themselves.” He pushed through the little circle and went out of the store. Hiram seized his crackers and cheese and started after him, overtaking the sailor in the middle of the square. One after the other, the old men blunted their noses against the frosty panes of Brickett’s front window, trying to spy and to hear. But only the mumble of voices reached them, Hiram’s tone insistent, Seekins’s deprecatory. But at last Hiram slapped him cordially on the back and the two separated. A sudden cessation in the band music showed that the refreshments had arrived in the hall, and the old men yawned about Brickett’s stove and one by one went home. One or two persons saw Hiram Look drive out of the yard of the old place the next forenoon and take the road toward Square Harbour, his tall hat projecting just above the high back of his sleigh, and fat ear-muffs cosily snuggling his ears. These one or two asked “Figger-Four” Avery about the showman’s departure, when he came to the store during the day, after a “fig" of tobacco. “Here’s what he said to me,” stated Avery: “Says he, ‘I’m goin’ to Europe, I-rope and A-rope after wild animiles, and I’ll be back when I git damation good and ready. If you miss feedin’ Imogene on the dot or let the fire git low in the stove, I’ll warp t’other leg for you.’ There! That’s what he said, and if you can git any more out of it than what I have, you’re welcome to. I guess you’d better give me another fig o’ terbacker, Ase, for I’m goin’ to stay pretty clus to that barn till he gits back.” “I s’pose you know all about el’phunts now, don’t you, Avery?” inquired one of the men who lounged about the stove, toasting their shins. “Wal, I know this much,” said “Figger-Four,” putting away his weed and buttoning his coat before facing the cold; “I know that an el’phunt wants meals reg’lar—a lot of it, can’t understand a joke and don’t like music on the flute. There may be other things about ’em to know, but they ain’t things that I need in my bus’ness.”
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