Nevertheless, he could not endure to see any others. He went desperately into the house, where he found his wife fuming over his delay.

"I guess I may as well tell ye, first as last," he said, in a sort of stubborn despair. "'T was me that shot Lamoury."

"You!" exclaimed his wife, dropping her knife and fork, and looking at him as if she thought he had taken leave of his senses.

"I guess I'm the feller," he averred, with queer, pathetic humor. And turning a patient, rounded back to his wife's expected indignation, he told his story while he nervously washed at the sink, and fumblingly dried his face and hands in the coarse roller towel. He made these operations last as long as his confession. Then, at an end of his resources, he turned to face the storm.

Mrs. Peaslee simply looked at him. She struggled to speak, but she found herself in the predicament of one who has used up all ammunition on the skirmish-line, and comes helpless to the battle. She simply could think of nothing adequate to say.

She stared at her husband while he stared out of the window.

Then she gave it up.

"Draw up your chair!" she said sharply. "I guess ye got to eat, whatever ye be!"



VII

When the grand jury dispersed after Mr. Peaslee's confession, Farnsworth, first speaking a few words to Paige, the state's attorney, hurried toward the Union School. As he expected, he met Miss Ware coming from it on her way to her boarding-house.

He waved his hat, and called:—

"Jim's free!"

As he reached her side he added, "He didn't fire the shot at all."

"Of course he didn't!" cried Nancy, triumphantly. "Didn't I tell you? But who did, and how did you find out?"

"Peaslee," said Farnsworth. "He owned up."

"Mr. Peaslee! Then that awful harmonica—Why, the wretch!"

"Sh!" warned Farnsworth. "Not so loud! These are jury-room secrets which I'm not supposed to tell."

But he told them, nevertheless. As the two walked along together, he gave her an account of all that had happened.

"But what I don't understand," he concluded, "is what made Jim behave so. What did he clean his gun for? Why did he hide the rags and put away the ammunition? He acted just as if he were trying to shield some one. We know he wasn't trying to shield himself, and I don't see why he should shield Peaslee."

"Fred!" said Nancy, stopping and facing him. "Jim knew that his father was the only person in the house, didn't he?"

"Yes," said Farnsworth.

"Then he thought his father did it!"

"O pshaw!" exclaimed Farnsworth. "He couldn't!"

"Don't be rude, Fred!" admonished Nancy. "Wasn't I right before? Well, I'm right now. How could he have thought anything else? I'm going straight to the jail and find out. And can we get him away from that jail?"

"Yes," said Farnsworth. "I spoke to Paige. He said he'd bring the boy in and have him discharged this afternoon. He has to appear before the judge, you know, before he can be let go."

"That's nice," said Nancy. "Now, Fred, you go straight to Mr. Edwards and bring him up there, too. I don't suppose any one's thought to tell him."

"But I haven't had any dinner," objected Farnsworth.

"Dinner!" exclaimed Miss Ware, in deep scorn, and Farnsworth laughed and surrendered.

They separated then. Miss Ware took the side street to the jail, while Farnsworth hurried along toward Edwards's house.

"Mr. Edwards," he said, when that gentleman appeared at the door, "Miss Ware wants you right away at the jail," and as he spoke he was struck with the strain which showed in the man's face. "He must have felt it a good deal," he reflected, with surprise.

A sudden fear showed in Mr. Edwards's eyes.

"Jim isn't sick, is he?" he asked.

"Oh, no!" replied Farnsworth, hastily. "He's cleared, that's all. We'll have him out of jail this afternoon."

"Cleared?" repeated Mr. Edwards, distrustfully. Was Farnsworth joking? Nothing was more certain in the father's mind than that Jim had fired the shot. No other supposition was possible. His face grew severe at the thought that Farnsworth was trifling with him.

"Yes, cleared!" said the young man, somewhat nettled. "We have absolute, certain proof that Jim hadn't anything to do with it."

"I should like to hear it," said Mr. Edwards, coldly.

"Well, we have the real offender's own confession," said Farnsworth, irritated at the incredulity of the man. What was the fellow made of?

Mr. Edwards said nothing. He turned and got his hat, and walked with Farnsworth up the street the half-mile to the jail. His face was impassive, but his movements had a new alertness, and Farnsworth noted that he had to walk painfully fast to keep up with this much older man.

Edwards, in spite of his cold exterior, was a man of strong feeling, and there was, in fact, a deep joy and a deep regret at his heart. He knew with thankfulness that he had a truthful and courageous son. He saw with passionate self-reproach that he had done the boy a great injustice. But why, why had Jim cleaned the gun?

Farnsworth, little guessing the turmoil in the heart of the grave man by his side, was wondering if, after all, Miss Ware could be right in thinking that Jim had sacrificed himself for this unfeeling parent.

"If she is right," he reflected, thinking how harsh had been the father's treatment of the boy, "what a little brick Jim is!"

He had a very human desire to present this view and prick this automaton into some show of life.

"Mr. Edwards," he said suddenly, "Jim knew, didn't he, that you were the only person besides himself at home?"

"I suppose so."

"Does it occur to you that he may have thought you did the shooting?"

"That can't be so," said Mr. Edwards; but there was a note of shocked concern, of dismay, in his tone which satisfied Farnsworth, and again he thought more kindly of his companion.

And Mr. Edwards was stirred by the unexpected question. After all, he thought, since Jim was not trying to shield himself, whom else could he wish to shield? And a sudden deep enthusiasm filled him for this son who was not only courageous and truthful, but who, in spite of his unjust treatment, was loyal, who—he thrilled at the word—loved him! But no, it was not possible! How could his son have thought that he could accuse his boy of what he had done himself?

And upon this doubt, he found himself with a quickened pulse at the door of the jail. Farnsworth rang the bell. Soon they stood in Mrs. Calkins's sitting-room, facing Jim and Nancy. And then Miss Ware caught Farnsworth by the arm and drew him quickly into the hall, and shut the door behind her.

"I'm certain!" she whispered, breathlessly. "When I told Jim first, he wasn't glad at all, until I managed to let him know his father wasn't arrested. O Fred, that boy's a little trump!"

Meanwhile, in Mrs. Calkins's sitting-room, father and son faced each other, and it would be hard to say which of the two was the more embarrassed.

But certain questions burned on Mr. Edwards's lips.

"Jim," he said, with anxious emotion, "did you think that I shot Lamoury?"

"Yes, sir," said Jim.

"But why, my boy, why should I want to shoot him?"

"Lamoury had been telling," said Jim, highly embarrassed.

"Telling?" said his father, in perplexity.

"Yes, sir," said Jim, "you know—about your being a—a smuggler."

Much astonished, Mr. Edwards pushed his questions, and soon came to know the depth and breadth of his boy's misconception.

"Then," he said finally, "when I accused you of having fired the shot, you thought I had to do so to avoid an arrest which would be serious for me. Is that it?"

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Edwards could not speak for a moment for emotion. Then he drew the boy to him.

"My son, my son," he said, "you and I must know each other better."

And by the same token, Jim realized that his father was proud of him and loved him. It was new and sweet. He felt a little foolish, but very happy.

"Jim," his father said huskily, "would you like a new breech-loader?"

And then Jim was happier still.

* * * * *

Those were reluctant feet which dragged Mr. Peaslee the next morning to the jury-room. The counsel of the night had brought no comfort, and when he came among his fellows their constraint and silence were far from reassuring. Nor, when the sitting had begun, did he like the enigmatic smile with which the well-dressed Paige stood and swung his watch-chain. How he distrusted and feared this smug, self-complacent young man! Yet the state's attorney's first words brought him unexpected comfort.

"Mr. Lamoury," he said, still with that puzzling smile, "has consented, in spite of his serious physical condition, to appear before you."

Lamoury could not be so badly hurt if he could come to the court house! But what was this? While the state's attorney held wide the door, Jake Hibbard solemnly pushed into the room a great wheeled chair, in which sat the small, wiry, furtive-eyed Lamoury.

Mr. Peaslee's heart sank as he saw the wheeled chair, and noted the great bandages about the Frenchman's head and arm. He listened apprehensively to the loud complaint of cruelty to his client which Hibbard continued to make, until Paige, pulling the chair into the room, blandly shut the door in his face. Mr. Peaslee heaved a great sigh of mingled contrition and fear. This wreck was his work; he would be punished for it.

"Mr. Lamoury," Paige began courteously, "we so wished to get your version of this painful affair that, though we are sorry to cause you any discomfort, we have felt obliged to bring you here. Will you kindly tell the gentlemen of the grand jury what happened?"

"Yes, seh, me, Ah'll tol' heem!" said Lamoury, eagerly.

Confident that no one knew anything about what had happened except Jim Edwards and himself, he intended to make his narrative striking.

"Yes, seh, Ah'll tol' de trut'. Well, seh, Ah'll be goin' t'rough M'sieu' Edwards's horchard—walkin' t'rough same as any mans. Den I look, han' I see dat leetly boy in de windy, a-shoutin' and a-cussin' lak he gone crazee in hees head. Ah tol' you Ah feel bad for hear dat leetly boy cussin'. Dat was too shame."

And Lamoury paused to let this beautiful sentiment impress itself upon the jurors. Mr. Peaslee listened with profound astonishment.

"Den he holler somet'ing Ah ain't hear, honly 'Canuck,' han' Ah begins for get my mads up. Ah hain't do heem no harm, hein? Den he fire hees gun,—poom!—an' more as twenty—prob'ly ten shot-buck heet me on the head of it!"

Buckshot! "Them's the marble," thought Mr. Peaslee, "but there wasn't but one!"

"Ah tol' you dey steeng lak bumbletybees. Ah t'ink me, dat weeked leetly boy goin' for shoot more as once prob'ly—mebbe two, t'ree tam. Ah drop queek in de grass, an' Ah run—run queek! An' when Ah get home, Ah find two, t'ree, five, mebbe four hole in mah arm more beeg as mah t'umb."

Pete stopped dramatically; his little sparkling black eyes traveled quickly from one face to another to note the effect he had made. Mr. Peaslee's spirits were rising; the grand jury could not believe such a "passel of lies"—only, only was one of those holes "beeg as mah t'umb" made, perchance, by a marble?

"That's a mighty moving narrative," commented Sampson, dryly. "Did I understand you to say that you were hit in the head or the arm?"

"Bose of it," averred Pete, without winking.

"I didn't shoot any bag of marbles," whispered Mr. Peaslee to his neighbor, who nodded. That he had the courage to address a remark to any one shows how his spirits were rising.

"You said you were going along the short cut through Mr. Edwards's orchard, didn't you?" the state's attorney now asked.

"Yes, seh," said Pete.

Paige stepped to a big blackboard, which he had had set up at the end of the room, and rapidly sketched a plan of the Edwards' lot, with the aid of a memorandum of measurements which he had secured. A line across the upper left-hand corner represented the path commonly used by the neighbors in going through the Edwards's orchard.

"Now, Mr. Lamoury," resumed Paige, "I don't quite understand how, if you were on the path there, you could have seen young Edwards, or he you. The barn seems to be in the way until just at the right-hand end, and when you get to that, you'd have to look through about ten rows of apple-trees. Now weren't you a little off the line?"

"Dame!" exclaimed Pete, ingenuously. "Ah'll was got for be, since Ah was shoot, ain't it? Ah'll can't remembler."

"Mr. Edwards told us," continued Paige, while Solomon's heart warmed to him, "that he saw you fall out of some bushes. Now these are the only bushes there are," and he rapidly indicated on the board the rows of currant bushes, the asparagus, the sunflowers, and the lilacs which lined the garden on its right-hand corner. "That's a good way from the path."

"Ah'll be there, me!" cried Pete, in indignant alarm. "No, seh! M'sieu' Edwards say dat? Respectable mans lak M'sieu' Edwards! It was shame for lie so. No, seh! Ah go home t'rough de horchard. Mebbe Ah'll go leetly ways off de path of it,—mebbe for peek up apple off'n de groun' what no one ain't want for rot of it,—Ah'll don't remembler. But I ain't go for hide in de bush! Ah'll be honest mans, me. Ah'll go for walk where all mans can see, ain't it? What Ah'll go hide for, me?"

Paige drew a square on Mr. Peaslee's side of the fence, directly opposite the bushes.

"That," said he, "is Mr. Peaslee's hen-house," and he brushed the chalk from his fingers with an air of indifference.

"So-o?" cried Pete, with an air of pleased surprise. "M'sieu' Peaslee he'll got hen-rouse? First tam Ah'll was heard of it, me. Fine t'ing for have hen-rouse, fine t'ing for M'sieu' Peaslee. Ah'll t'ink heem for be lucky, M'sieu' Peaslee. But Ah'll ain't know it. Ah'll ain't see nossin' of it, no, seh!" and Pete smiled innocently round at the enigmatic faces of the jurymen.

"Mr. Lamoury," said Paige, with a very casual air, "behind those bushes is a broken board."

"So-o?" said Pete.

"Any one who was there had an excellent chance to study the fastenings of Mr. Peaslee's hen-house door."

"Mais, Ah'll was tol' you Ah'll not be dere, me!" cried Pete, alarmed and excited.

"That," said Mr. Paige, calmly, "is the only place where you could be and get shot from the boy's window. Either you were there or you weren't shot. Besides, Mr. Edwards found your foot-prints."

Pete shrunk his head into his shoulders and glared questioningly at the state's attorney. The examination was not going to his liking.

"What Ah'll care for dat?" he said at last.

"Oh, nothing," said Paige, "nothing at all. Let us talk of something else. Let me ask why Mr. Edwards discharged you from his employ last spring?"

"Nossing! Nossing! Ah'll be work for heem more good as never was."

"If he treated you as unjustly as that," said Paige, with sympathy, "you cannot have a very high opinion of Mr. Edwards."

"Ah'll tol' you he was bad mans. He'll discharge me more as seexty mile off. Ah'll have for walk, me. Ah'll tol' you dat was mean treek for play on poor mans."

And Pete sought sympathy from the faces about him.

"That was too bad, certainly," said Paige. "Now about those wounds of yours. I have Doctor Brigham here, ready to make an examination. I'll call him now," and the state's attorney started toward the door of the witness-room.

Pete jumped.

"Hein!" he exclaimed.

"You don't object to having an excellent doctor like Doctor Brigham look at your wounds, do you?" asked Paige.

Now Lamoury had no wounds to show. The smiling, well-dressed Paige, standing there and looking at him with amused comprehension, was more than he could bear. Pete suddenly lost his temper, never too secure. Out of his wheeled chair he jumped, and shaking his fist in Paige's face, he shouted:—

"T'ink you be smart, very smart mans! Well, Ah'll tol' you you ain't. Ah'll tol' you you be a great beeg peeg! Ah'll tol' you dat Edwards boy, he shoot at me. I see heem. 'T ain't my fault of it if he not hit me, hein? You be peeg! You be all peegs—every one!" and Pete, making a wide, inclusive gesture, shouted, "I care not more as one cent for de whole keet and caboodle of it! Peeg, peeg, peeg!"

And turning on his heel, the wrathful Frenchman left the room. He left also a convulsed jury and a wheeled chair, for the hire of which Hibbard found himself later obliged to pay.

Mr. Peaslee, the thermometer of whose spirits had been rising steadily, joined in the laughter which followed the exit of the discomfited Pete.

"Terrible smart feller, Paige, ain't he?" said he to Albion Small. "Did him up real slick, didn't he?" The delighted Solomon had quite forgotten his dislike for the citified Paige.

Of course the grand jury promptly abandoned the inquiry. The fact was now obvious that the vengeful Lamoury, aided by the unscrupulous Hibbard, had merely hoped to be bought off by Mr. Edwards, and had been disappointed.

"The case," said Paige, "would never have come to trial. If Edwards had persisted, and let his boy go to court, they'd have had to stop. They must have been a good deal disappointed when he refused bail; they probably thought he'd never let the boy pass a night in Hotel Calkins."

* * * * *

Mr. Peaslee walked home sobered but relieved. The loss of public esteem which had come to him through his foolish adventure, the serious wrong which he had inflicted upon Jim Edwards, the disgust of his wife were all things to chasten a man's spirit; but on the other hand, Jim was now out of jail, Lamoury had not been hurt in the least, and he himself had not been complained of or arrested. If he should have to endure some chaffing from Jim Bartlett and Si Spooner, his cronies at the bank, he "guessed he could stand it." On the whole, he was moderately happy.

The sun was low in the west, and the trees were casting long shadows across his yard, brightly spattered with the red and yellow of autumnal leaves. His house, white and neat and comfortable, seemed basking like some still, somnolent animal in the warm sunshine.

Solomon turned, and cast his eye down the road and over the Random River, flowing smooth and peaceful through its great ox-bow. He recognized Dannie Snow, scuffling through the dust with his bare feet, as he drove home his father's great, placid, full-uddered cow. The comfort of the scene, the cosy pleasantness of the place among the close-coming hills, struck him, in his relieved mood, as it had never done before. Even though disappointed in political ambition, a man might live there in some content.

After all, he had thirty thousand dollars, and it had been calmly drawing interest through all his tribulations.

Consoled by this reflection, he walked to the rear of his house and began pottering about the chicken yard. Then in the Edwards garden appeared Jim. Solomon gave a slight start, and took a hesitating step or two, as if minded to flee, but restrained by shame. He watched the boy come to the fence, and climb upon it. He said nothing; he could not think of anything to say.

"That harmonica was fine!" said Jim, grinning amiably.

Mr. Peaslee was immensely relieved. If there was a momentary twinge at the thought of the money it had cost him, it was quickly gone.

"Glad ye enjoyed it. Seem 's though I wanted to give ye a little suthin'—considerin'. I hope you and your father ain't ones to lay it up agin me."

"That's all right," said Jim, grandly. "I had a bully time at the jail. Mrs. Calkins is a splendid woman. You just ought to eat one of her doughnuts!"

"Didn't know they fed ye up much to the jail," commented Solomon, puzzled.

"Oh, I wasn't locked up," said Jim, and explained.

"Well, well, I'm beat! That was clever on 'em, wa'n't it now?" said Mr. Peaslee, much pleased.

"And father ain't holding any grudge, either," said Jim. "He says he's much obliged to you"—a remark which the reader will understand better than Mr. Peaslee ever did.

"You listen when you're eating your supper!" cried Jim, as he climbed down from the fence and ran toward the house. "I'm going to play on that harmonica!"

And Solomon rejoiced. Poor man, he did not know how the popularity of his gift was destined to endure; he did not know that he had let loose upon the circumambient air sounds worse than any ever emitted by the Calico Cat.

Filled with the pleasant sense of having "made it up" with the boy whom he thought he had so greatly injured, Solomon started along the path toward the kitchen door. He began to realize that he had an appetite—something now long unfamiliar to him. As he drew near, an appetizing odor smote his nostrils.

"Eyesters, I swanny!" he ejaculated.

It was unheard of! There was nothing which Solomon, who had a keen relish for good things to eat, and would even have been extravagant in this one particular had his firm-willed wife permitted, enjoyed more than an oyster stew, or which he had a chance to taste less often. Oysters could be had in town for sixty cents a quart, a sum that seems not large; but in Mrs. Peaslee's mind they were associated with the elegance and luxury of church "sociables," and with the dissipation of supper after country dances. They were extravagant food. Solomon could not believe his nose.

He entered the door, and there upon the table stood the big tureen, with two soup plates at Mrs. Peaslee's place. There was nothing else but the stew, of course, but it lent a gala air to the whole kitchen.

"Why, Sarepty, Sarepty!" he said to his wife.

"You goin' to be arrested?" asked Mrs. Peaslee, sharply. She wanted no sentiment over her unwonted generosity; but, truth to tell, when she had seen Solomon depart that morning, and realized that he might be going to arrest, possibly to trial, perhaps to conviction and to jail, she had felt a sudden fright, a sudden sympathy for her husband, and she had bought half a pint of oysters for a stew—in spite of expense.

"No, I ain't going to be arrested," said Solomon, with satisfaction. "The grand jury found there wa'n't anythin' to it; but—but, Sarepty—"

He paused helplessly, unable to express his complex feelings about the stew, and the attitude on the part of his wife which it revealed.

"Oh, well," said his wife, "after all, 't ain't 's if you'd gone and lost money."

And after supper Mr. Peaslee carefully poured some skimmed milk into a saucer and went out to the barn.

"Kitty, kitty!" he called. "Kitty, come, kitty!"

The Calico Cat did not respond. But in the morning the saucer was empty.

Transcriber's Note The cover illustration referred to in the Author's Note at the beginning of this book was not available for this electronic version of the text.

THE END