CHAPTER XIII.

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UNDER FIRE.

Boardman Blake sat in his store, patiently holding his hands in his lap, and waiting for a customer. Indeed, there seemed to be nothing else that he could very well do. He was not needed in the barn, for Don Pedro was there, looking faithfully after oxen and cows; after “Old Jennie,” the mare, also. Boardman had just brought from the well all that Aunt Lydia needed in her department—“two heapin’ pails of water.” He was tired of looking at the few books on the shelves in the store, and he had gone through the County Bugle from its first note to its last one. As no customer arrived, his only occupation was to nurse his hands in his lap, and wait in hope. If Boardman had waited until an actual customer had arrived, there would have been a good deal of nursing. He supposed at first it was a customer, when he heard a footstep at the door, and then caught the tinkle of the watchful bell.

“Ho, Walter, that you? I am glad to see you,” and as Uncle Boardman welcomed the young man, he expressed his pleasure in a very beaming smile and a very firm hand–grip. Walter explained the errand about certain goods which Keeper Barney wanted Uncle Boardman to send to the station, and the conversation then became a personal one.

“Well, Walter, how do you like the surf business?”

“Oh, I have enjoyed it so far. It’s not all play, though.”

“No, no! It’s a rough–and–tumble life when the winter sets in. However, I would make the best of it.

“Oh, I mean to do that, uncle.”

Here Uncle Boardman looked out of the window, and twirling his hands in his lap, talked away on this subject of making the best of things.

“Now, at the station you won’t find everything to your mind. You won’t like all the men; but then you can make a good deal of what you do like; and what you don’t like, you can just look over it, and try not to mind it, Walter.”

“I know it. There’s Joe Cardridge. I don’t take to him a bit; but I try not to mind him. And as for Tom Walker and Woodbury Elliott, I could do anything for them. There’s Cook Charlie—he’s a jolly team, and the Lowds, they’re great grinners, and the men make a deal of fun of them; but they’re good–hearted as the days are long. I like Slim Tarleton.”

“Pretty hard trampin’ backwards and forwards, some nights, ain’t it?”

“Yes, that’s so; but then I say, ‘Well, there will be a warm bed when I get through,’ and then in the morning, I can’t say I enjoy getting up, turning out into a cold room; but I say, ‘There’s a lovely hot breakfast downstairs,’ and I pop up quicker.”

“That’s it, Walter. I guess you’re getting the hang of the house. How—how do you come on since—” Uncle Boardman hesitated. He felt the pressure of a certain amount of responsibility, as he stood in the place of Walter’s father and mother, and he wished to ask about his religious life.

“Since—since you were confirmed, Walter?”

“I—I try to do right, uncle, and—”

“You stick to your prayers and your Bible?”

“Oh, yes. I miss my church, Sundays.”

“Well, Walter, do the best you can, your duty toward God and toward man; but do it naturally.”

“What, sir?”

“Why, I mean by that—let me see how I shall put it? It seems to me that I might—of course I don’t intend it—be too—too conscious of my religion. Seems to me a man may be painfully so, going round with a kind of holier–than–thou way. Do you understand me?”

“I think I do.”

“Just be natural. Let your religion just take possession of you, and then come out just—just as song comes out of a bird. I don’t see why it shouldn’t, for religion is the happiest thing in the world. Sometimes, I find a man, and he makes me feel that he is so dreadful good, why it would be taking a liberty, to laugh in his presence. Now that man is sort of painfully conscious of his religion, all the time a–worrying about it and a–fussing over it; and makes the people uneasy all round him. Just be natural, Walter, and without your fussing over it, it will come out easy and smooth as a bird’s singing. I tell you, Walter, a good kind of religion is one that says when you weigh a thing, ‘Sixteen ounces make a pound;’ and when you talk, ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor;’ and when it comes to our no licensing, that says, ‘Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink, that puttest thy bottle to him and makest him drunken also.’ Do you understand, Walter? Be thorough in your religion. Pray, but act as you pray.”

“I want to do that way.”

This was the answer Walter made audibly. What he added silently, and what he repeated as he was going to the station, was this: “Uncle Boardman can afford to talk, for Uncle Boardman practices. I don’t care how much I have of that man’s religion. ‘Make the best of things,’ he said. I wonder if he isn’t having a hard time in his mill business with Baggs, and if it don’t come hard to be cheerful!”

It did “come hard be cheerful,” for Uncle Boardman had only been a fly in the web of that spider, “Belzebub” Baggs. To erect the mill and inaugurate the business there, Uncle Boardman had been obliged to put on his home a mortgage, additional to one already existing. The first burden, the house might have sustained; but under the additional pressure of the second, the house threatened, as a piece of of Blake property, to collapse. Did not the fly know he was walking into a spider’s web, when “Belzebub” came, and spoke soft words, and made extravagant promises? The fly was suspicious, but the spider showed him a recommendation from two men of excellent judgment whom he personally knew. Enticed by the assurance that B. Baggs was a man of business, a man of money, and a man of morals, the fly walked into the spider’s web. Discovering his mistake, Uncle Boardman was now trying to rectify it; refusing to place any more money in the mill enterprise. And didn’t the spider threaten vengeance! Didn’t he turn on the poor fly, and torment him with the fact that he held a certain note against him almost due, and whose payment he would press!

“Oh!” thought Uncle Boardman. “It’s that note for $500, which I lost somehow, and then I gave him another. Well!”

That was all the fly could say. He knew he had made mistakes, but they were mistakes based on the opinion of those whom he supposed he could trust. Now that the toils of the spider were closing about him, he was doing his best to struggle out of them.

“I won’t, though, make others just miserable with my troubles,” he declared. “I won’t give up. I’ll—I’ll—”

When he reached this place, Boardman Blake always looked up; and amid the storm clouds, steadily gathering, not slowly but rapidly increasing, he could see one little place that held a star.

“I’ll trust my Heavenly Father,” he said, trying to be cheerful, patiently bearing Aunt Lydia’s reflections, (those were rather gingery at first), good–naturedly standing up, and taking the raillery of his neighbors also. Aunt Lydia! She was gingery at first, peppery even, and that of the cayenne sort, but when she understood the nature of the influence brought to bear upon her husband, that he had been guided by the judgment of others, who were supposed to be wiser, she sheathed her tongue in all possible charity. She played the part of the true wife, and silently looking at him through the eyes of a woman’s pity, stood by him, and defended him, with all of a woman’s devotion and courage.

As Walter neared the station, there was a sneer leaning against the door, and this sneer was two–legged: it was Joe Cardridge. It was a mild December day, and he was lazily enjoying its sunshine. As Walter approached, he superciliously looked him over, and said “Hullo, surf–boy!”

“How are ye!” replied Walter pleasantly.

“Surf–boy” was a title, which, spoken in Joe’s sneering way, Walter did not fancy. If Tom Walker had roared it out, Tom would have put into it a tone of hearty good–will; and Walter would have worn the name gladly. Joe added a sneer to it, and the title galled Walter. However, he kept his temper under, and always addressed Joe courteously. The other surfmen noticed Joe’s manner, and silently criticised it by treating Walter’s youth with all the greater considerateness.

On one occasion when Joe contemptuously and with the spirit of a bully had flung this title at him, Slim Tarleton remarked, “Hullo, Walter! You’ve got a lot of strength, I know. You have got master arms. We’ve got an old stump in our cow pasture, and I mean to tell father to let you try on it when we are takin’ up stumps.”

There was no Slim standing at the station door to offset Joe’s present sneer with the tender of another stump.

“Ben movin’ the world, boy?” continued Joe.

“I have been up to Uncle Boardman’s,” replied Walter.

“How is his mill gettin’ on? ‘A fool and his money is soon parted,’ they say.”

“He is not a fool,” said Walter resolutely. “I believe if he had an honest man to deal with, he would get along.”

“Indeed!” remarked Joe sneeringly.

Several of the surfmen now came to the door, tempted by the mild air, whose softness seemed to be on sea and land, softening all glaring color and over all roughness throwing a veil of purplish haze. It was one of the fine effects of that scenic painter, Nature.

Who of those present understood that Joe Cardridge was not only an ally of the great Baggs, but also his hired—I can hardly say paid—agent? It was he that had induced a number of the men to intrust their money with Baggs; and on every man’s money he had been promised a commission.

“I most–er–wish I had taken out my kermission fust, afore sendin’ Baggs the money,” Joe had said; but it was too late to make changes. He still lived, though, in the hope that out of those exhaustless money fountains Baggs was reputed to own, a golden stream might run some day into Joe Cardridge’s pocket. Feeling that he was the representative of the great house of Baggs, he did not fancy the nature of Walter’s remark, knowing its meaning. However, the thunder storm raging under his vest he prudently concealed in the presence of Tom Walker, Cook Charlie, and Woodbury Elliott. Although he had received no pay from the great mercantile house employing him, he meant in its behalf to give “pay,” in an underhand fashion to the young fellow now insulting Baggs, as he thought.

“Fellers,” he said, “it’s pleasant, and the grass is thick and dry; and it won’t hurt if we git tumbled; and let’s have a rastle.”

The proposition of a friendly wrestle did not seem unpleasant to these young fishermen, proud of their muscle, and ambitious to show it.

“I’m willin’,” said Tom Walker, gaping, and at the same time ostentatiously throwing up a pair of brawny arms.

“So am I,” said Woodbury Elliott, straightening up, and bringing into firm outline his splendid frame.

“So—so—am I,” said Cook Charlie, waddling about; “pervided—you let me beat.”

This proposition was welcomed with a laugh, but it was instantly followed by another from Joe.

“Come, surf–boy, let’s you and me try.”

“Surf–boy!” growled Tom Walker. “He has got a lot of strength, Joe.”

“Oh, I’m willing,” said Walter pleasantly “Any time.”

Joe was the older and the taller of the two, but Walter was as heavy, and his frame was more compact. Joe’s bones had been put together loosely. If Walter could have looked down to the bottom of Joe’s dark, evil eyes, he would have read this determination there: “I’ll punish this boy smartly ’fore I git through with him to–day.” Walter however saw no such sinister spirit, and he only said, “Ready!” The two gripped, and quickly Joe came to the ground in a heap. Joe looked angry when he rose. “Let’s try that agin!” he said.

Woodbury noticed the anger in Joe’s face, and called out, “Fair play, fair!”

Joe made no answer, but renewed his effort, only to make a worse heap on the ground than before. When he rose the second time, he was furious with wrath and immediately struck at Walter. The “surf–boy” though, quietly pinioned his arms and laid him on the ground a third time. Rising again, his fury was his master, and he would have thrown himself on Walter, but Tom Walker and Woodbury Elliott planted themselves before Joe, and called out to him to stop.

“I challenge—him!” said the almost breathless Joe. “I want—to—try—it—in fightin’ fashion.”

“I shan’t fight,” said Walter. “But I can take care of myself if I am attacked.”

“You are afeared!”

“Quiet, Joe!” said Tom. “He has come off fust best, and he is not afraid; and he could use you all up, and I ’vise you to keep quiet. You ought to be ashamed of yourself that you can’t play fair. Here comes the keeper, too.”

Hearing this, Joe stumbled off into the station, looking like a disgraced animal, which he really was. He muttered vengeance however, as he stole away.

“Didn’t that boy carry himself well?” said Tom to Woodbury, as they strolled back of the station. “I’ve been a–watchin’ him and he has stood Joe’s mean fire like a hero. I think he means to do the right thing.”

“No doubt about that; but I guess he felt pretty well stirred up.”

“That’s so. I imagine he jest felt like bilin’ over; but he didn’t show it more than the outside of an iron pot, where the bilin’ is. I think he did well. He jest conquered that Joe, and he conquered himself; and I think I could more easily give ten lickin’s of the fust sort, to one of the second.”

As for Walter, he had entered the station, gone upstairs, and was looking out of a window that faced the west, where the sun was frescoing the misty walls of the sky with daintiest shades. He was in no quiet mood. He was sorry that he had consented to any trial of strength ending so unpleasantly. He was sorry to find out that under the roof with him, was an avowed enemy. The world looks friendly to the young, and it is a bitter discovery to hear lions roaring about our path. Walter resolved, though, he would try the harder to do only the thing that was right; and as he stood with his face to the flaming sky, he asked God to help him.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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