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Innocents, A Story for Lovers, The

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<h2> CHAPTER XV</h2> WHILE he was raising his arms so high that his cuffs were pulled half-way down to his elbows, Father was conscious that the hoboes by the fire, even the formidable Crook McKusick, were doing the same. Facing them, in the woods border, was a farmer in a coon-skin overcoat, aiming a double-barreled shot-gun, beside him two other farmers with rifles under their arms. It seemed to Father that he was in a wild Western melodrama, and he helplessly muttered, “Gosh! Can you beat it?” The man with the leveled shot-gun drawled, “I’m the deputy sheriff for this locality and I’ll give you dirty bums just five minutes to pick up your duffle and git out, and keep a-going. I guess we don’t need you around here. You been robbing every hen-roost for ten miles. Now step lively, and no funny business.” “Stung!” muttered Crook McKusick, hopelessly. “Got us.” Suddenly a downy figure—who might herself have come from a large, peaceful human hen-roost—fluttered straight at the muzzle of the sheriff’s shot-gun. It was Mother. “Hands up, I told juh!” stormed the sheriff, amazedly. “Oh, look out, Mother!” wailed Father, rushing after her, his own hands going down to his sides in his agitation. “Look out, aunty!” echoed Crook McKusick. “That’s a bad actor, that guy.” But Mother continued straight at the gun, snapping: “Don’t point that dratted thing at me. You bother me.” The sheriff wavered. The gun dropped. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Never you mind who I am, young man. I’m responsible for these boys, though. And they promised me they wouldn’t do no more stealing. They’re going to work for what they get. And they got a right here on this land. They got permission. That’s more than you got, I venture, with your nasty guns and all, coming around here— Have you got a warrant?” “No, I ain’t, but you—” “Then you just step yourself away, young man! Coming here, fairly shaking a body’s nerves. I vow, you almost scare me, carrying on— Put down that dratted gun, I told you. You’ll either go, Mr. Deputy Monkey, or I’ll see your boss, and we’ll see what we’ll see.” With which Mother—who was rapidly becoming almost impolite in her indignation over this uninvited visit from a person whom she couldn’t find it in her heart to like—seized the muzzle of the gun, pushed it down, and stood glowering at the sheriff, her arms akimbo. “Well, ma’am, I don’t know who you are, but if you got any idee that this bunch of cut-throats is likely to turn into any W. C. T. U. pink-tea party—” “Now none of your nonsense and impudence and sneering, young man, and be off with you, or I’ll see somebody that’ll have something to say to you. Illegal goings-on, that’s what they are; no warrant or nothing.” One of the sheriff’s companions muttered: “Come on, Bill. I think she’s the wife of that nosey new preacher over to Cordova.” “All right,” said the sheriff. Before he turned away he threatened, “Now if I hear of anything more from you boys, I’ll get that warrant, all righty, and you’ll land in the calaboose, where you belong.” But the hoboes about the fire cheered derisively, and as the sheriff disappeared in the woods they surrounded Mother in a circle of grins and shining eyes, and the K. C. Kid was the first to declare: “Good for you, aunty. You’re elected camp boss, and you can make me perm’nent cookee, if you want to.” “Well, then,” said Mother, calmly, “let’s get that nasty shack cleaned up right away. I do declare I’m beginning to get sleepy.” Nothing in his life was more to Father’s credit than the fact that he did not envy Mother the credit of having become monarch of the camp and protector of the poor. “I’m with you, Mother,” he said. “What you want me to do? Let’s hustle. Blizzard coming—with a warrant.” <hr class="hr2" /> Round a camp-fire in the woods a group of men were playing cards, wire-bearded men in rough coats and greasy flannel shirts; but the most violent thing they said was “Doggone it,” and sometimes they stopped to listen to the strains of “Dandy Dick and the Candlestick,” which a white-haired cheerful old gentleman rendered on the mouth-organ. Father was perched on a powder-can. His feet were turned inward with comfort and soul-satisfaction, and now and then he jerked his head sideways, with an air of virile satisfaction. The collar of his blue-flannel shirt poked up beside his chin as cockily as the ear of a setter pup.... Father didn’t know it, but he was making believe be King of the Bandits. Across the fire, in an aged and uncertain rocking-chair, placid as though she were sitting beside a gas-log instead of a camp-fire over-gloomed with winter woods, was Mother, darning a sock and lecturing the homicidal-looking Crook McKusick on cursing and swearing and carryings-on. Crook stared down at her adoringly, and just when she seemed to have penetrated his tough hide with her moral injunctions he chuckled: “By golly! I believe I’ll marry and settle down—just as soon as I can find a moll that’ll turn into a cute old lady like you, aunty.” “Now, Mr. McKusick,” she said, severely, “you want to reform for the sake of reforming, not just to please some girl—not but what a nice sweet woman would be good—” “Nothing will ever be good for me, aunty. I’m gone. This sweet civilization of ours has got me. The first reform school I went to reformed me, all right—formed me into a crook. I used to show signs of growing up to be fair to middling intelligent, once. But now—nothing to it. You people, though you’re twice as old as I am, you’re twice as young. You got a chance. Look here, Uncle Appleby, why don’t you go out for being one of these famous old pedestrians that get their mugs in the papers? Will you do what I tell you to, if I train you? I’ve trained quite some pugs before—before I quit.” Mother acerbically declined to learn the art of physical culture. “Me at my time of life learning to do monkey-shines and bending and flapping my arms like a chicken with its head cut off.” But Father enthusiastically and immediately started in to become the rival of the gentlemen in jerseys who wear rubber heels in the advertisements and spend their old ages in vigorously walking from the Atlantic coast to the Pacific, merely in order to walk back again. While his fellow-hoboes about the fire jeered, Father bent over forty times, and raised himself on his toes sixty, and solemnly took breathing-exercises. Next day he slowly trotted ninety times about the clearing, his chin up and his chest out, while Crook McKusick, excited at being a trainer again, snapped orders at him and talked about form.... A ludicrous figure, a little old man, his white locks flapping under a mushy cap as he galloped earnestly through the light snow. But his cheeks were one red glow, his eyes were bright, and in his laugh, when he finished, was infinite hope. If it had been Mother who had first taken charge of the camp and converted it to respectability and digestible food, it was Father who really ran it, for he was the only person who could understand her and Crook McKusick and the sloppy Kid all at once. Crook McKusick had long cultivated a careful habit of getting drunk once a week. But two weeks after the coming of the Applebys he began to omit his sprees, because Mother needed him to help her engineer variations of the perpetual mulligan, and Father needed him for his regular training. To the training Crook added a course in psychology. As a hobo he was learned in that science. The little clerk, the comfortable banker, the writer of love-stories—such dull plodders have their habits all set out for them. But the hobo, who has to ride the rods amid flying gravel to-day, and has to coax food out of a nice old lady to-morrow, must have an expert working knowledge of psychology if he is to climb in his arduous profession. Father and Mother had started out from New York on a desperate flight, with no aspirations beyond the hope that they might be able to make a living. It was the hobo, Crook McKusick, who taught Father that there was no reason why, with his outdoor life and his broadened experience, he should not be a leader among men wherever he went; be an Edward Pilkings and a Miss Mitchin, yea, even a Mrs. Lulu Hartwig, instead of a meek, obedient, little Seth Appleby. It was Crook who, out of his own experience in doing the unusual, taught Father that it was just as easy to be unusual, to live a life excitedly free, as to be a shop-bound clerk. Adventure, like fear of adventure, consisted in going one step at a time, keeping at it, forming the habit.... So, an outcast among outcasts, grubbily bunked in a camp of hoboes, talking to a filthy lean man with an evil hooked nose, Seth Appleby began to think for himself, to the end that he should be one of the class that rules and is unafraid. The amiable boarders at Hoboes’ Home didn’t at all mind Mother’s darning their socks. They didn’t much mind having her order them to wash their faces at a hole through the ice in the near-by creek before coming to dinner. But it took her many days to get them used to going off to work for money and supplies. Yet every day half the camp grumblingly disappeared to shuck corn, mend fences, repair machinery, and they came back with flour, potatoes, meat, coffee, torn magazines, and shirts. Father regularly went out to work with them, and was the first to bring water, to cut wood. They all took a pride in the camp. They kept the bunk-house scrubbed, and inordinately admired the new mattresses, stuffed with fresh straw and covered with new calico, which Mother made for them. In the evenings the group about the camp-fire was not so very different from any other happy family—except that there was an unusually large proportion of bright eyes and tanned faces. But when spring cleared the snow away, made the bare patches of earth quiver with coming life, sent the crows and an occasional flock of ducks overhead—vagrants of the air, calling to their vagrant brothers about the fire—there was no sorrow in the break-up of the family, but only a universal joy in starting off for new adventures. <hr class="hr2" /> That honest workman, “Struck Dumb,” disappeared one afternoon, telling Crook that he heard of much building at Duluth. Crook laughed when Mother admired Mr. Struck Dumb’s yearning for creative toil. “That guy,” Crook declared, “is an honest workman except that he ain’t honest and he won’t work. He’ll last about two days in Duluth, and then he’ll pike for Alberta or San Diego or some place. He’s got restless feet, same like me.” The K. C. Kid and Reddy jigged and shouted songs all one evening, and were off for the north. At last no one but Father and Mother and Crook was left. And they, too, were star-eyed with expectation of new roads, new hills. They sat solemnly by the fire on their last evening. Mother was magnificent in a new cloak, to buy which Father had secretly been saving pennies out of the dimes that he had earned by working about the country. Usually Crook McKusick was gravely cynical when he listened to Father’s cataract of excited plans, but he seemed wistful to-night, and he nodded his head as though, for once, he really did believe that Father and Mother would find some friendly village that would take them in. Father was telling a story so ardently that he almost made himself believe it: Some day, Mother and he would be crawling along the road and discover a great estate. The owner, a whimsical man, a lonely and eccentric bachelor of the type that always brightens English novels, would invite them in, make Father his steward and Mother his lady housekeeper. There would be a mystery in the house—a walled-off room, a sound of voices at night in dark corridors where no voices could possibly be, a hidden tragedy, and at last Father and Mother would lift the burden from the place, and end their days in the rose-covered dower-house.... Not that Father was sure just what a dower-house was, but he was quite definite and positive about the rose-covering. “How you run on,” Mother yawned. “Aw, let him,” Crook cried, with sudden fierceness. “My Gawd! you two almost make me believe that there is such a thing as faith left in this dirty old world, that’s always seemed to me just the back of an eternal saloon. Maybe—maybe I’ll find my ambition again.... Well—g’ night.” When with their pack and their outlooking smiles the Applebys prepared to start, next day, and turned to say good-by to Crook, he started, cried, “I will!” and added, “I’m coming with you, for a while!” For two days Crook McKusick tramped with them, suiting his lean activity, his sardonic impatience, to their leisurely slowness. He called to the blackbirds, he found pasque-flowers for them, and in the sun-baked hollows between hillocks coaxed them to lie and dream. But one morning they found a note: <div class="blockquot"> Dear Aunty and Uncle: Heard a freight-train whistle and I’m off. But some day I’ll find you again. I’ll cut out the booze, anyway, and maybe I’ll be a human being again. God bless you babes in the woods. C. McK. </div> “The poor boy! God will bless him, too, and keep him, because he’s opened his heart again,” whispered Mother. “Are we babes in the woods, Seth? I’d rather be that than a queen, long as I can be with you.” East and west, north and south, the hoboes journeyed, and everywhere they carried with them fables of Mr. and Mrs. Seth Appleby, the famous wanderers, who at seventy, eighty, ninety, were exploring the world. Benighted tramps in city lock-ups, talking to bored police reporters, told the story, and it began to appear in little filler paragraphs here and there in newspapers. Finally a feature-writer on a Boston paper, a man with imagination and a sense of the dramatic, made a one-column Sunday story out of the adventures of Mr. and Mrs. Appleby. He represented them as wealthy New-Yorkers who were at once explorers and exponents of the simple life. He said nothing about a shoe-store, a tea-room, a hobo-camp. The idea of these old people making themselves a new life caught many imaginations. The Sunday story was reprinted and reprinted till the source of it was entirely forgotten. The names of the Applebys became stock references in many newspaper offices—Father even had a new joke appended to his name, as though he were an actor or an author or Chauncey Depew. The Applebys were largely unconscious of their floating fame. But as they tramped westward through West Virginia, as the flood tide of spring and the vigor of summer bore them across Ohio and into Indiana, they found that in nearly every town people knew their names and were glad to welcome them as guests instead of making them work for food. When Father did insist on cutting wood or spading a garden, it was viewed as a charming eccentricity in him, a consistent following of the simple life, and they were delighted when he was so whimsical as to accept pay for his work. But he never played the mouth-organ—except to Mother! Back to contents <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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