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Calico Cat, The

<h2>III</h2> Immediately after breakfast on Monday morning Mr. Peaslee, in a mood of desperate self-sacrifice, started up-town to buy a knife—for Jim! All day long on Sunday, when he had nothing to do but think, he had struggled between his fear of exposure and his sorrow for the boy. The upshot was a determination to "make it up to him" by giving him a knife. He had in his mind's eye a marvel—stag-horn handle, four blades, saw, awl, file, hoof-hook, corkscrew! Such a knife as that, he felt, would console any boy for being arrested. "Most likely 't will end right there," he said to himself. "I guess I'd better go to Farley's," he thought, as he walked along. "Farley owes money to the bank. He won't dare to stick it on like the rest." But when he entered the store and looked about, his face fell. Mr. Farley was not there! Willie Potter, Farley's clerk, a young man peculiarly distasteful to Solomon, lounged forward with a toothpick in his mouth. Mr. Peaslee had half a mind to go, but the thought of poor Jim held him back. "What will you have to-day, Mr. Peaslee?" inquired Willie, affably. He winked at young Dannie Snow, who sat grinning on a keg of nails, as much as to say, "Watch me have some fun with the old man." "I thought mebbe I'd look at some jack-knives," said Solomon, eyeing Willie distrustfully. "Yes, sir, I guess you want the best, regardless of expense," said Willie, impudently. He well understood his customer's dislike for spending a penny. Stepping behind the counter, he drew from the show-case and held up admiringly the most costly knife in the store. "Here, now, what do you say to this? Very superior article. Best horn, ten blades, best razor steel. Three-fifty, and cheap at the price. Can't be beat this side of Boston. Just the article for you, sir." And he winked again at Dannie Snow, who was pink with suppressed merriment. "Well, now, well, now," said Solomon, taking the knife in his hand and pretending to examine it closely. "That's a pretty knife, to be sure,—to—be—sure. Real showy, ain't it? Looks as if 't was made to sell—all outside and no money in the bank, like some young fellers ye see." Dannie Snow giggling outright, Mr. Peaslee turned and gazed at him in mild inquiry. Young Potter turned a dull red. He was addicted to radiant cravats and gauzy silk handkerchiefs, and from his "salary" of eight dollars a week he did not save much. But just the same, Mr. Peaslee had been staggered at the price. Pretending still to examine the knife which Willie had given him, he squinted past it at the contents of the glass show-case on which his elbows rested. There all sorts of knives confronted him, each in its little box, in which was stuck a card stating the price,—$1.50, $1.25, 90c, 45c. The cheapest one would eat up the proceeds of three dozen eggs at fifteen cents a dozen—a good price for eggs! He had forgotten that knives cost so much. "A good knife ain't any use to a boy," he reflected. "Break it in a day, lose it in a week. 'T wouldn't be any real kindness to him. Just wastin' money." He pointed finally to a stubby, wooden-handled knife with one big blade, marked 25c. "There, now," said he, "that's what I call a knife. Good and strong, and no folderol. Guarantee the steel, don't ye?" He opened the blade and drew it speculatively across his calloused old thumb, while with his mild blue eyes, which his spectacles enormously exaggerated, he fixed the humbled Willie. "That's a good knife for the money," said that young man. "Hand-forged." "Sho now, ye don't say so," said Mr. Peaslee. "I guess ye give a discount, don't ye? Farley always allows me a little suthin'." "You can have it for twenty-one cents," said Willie, much irritated. "Charge it?" "Guess I better pay cash," Mr. Peaslee answered hastily. If it were charged, his wife would question the item. Producing an enormous wallet—very worn and very flat—from his cavernous pocket, he deliberately searched until he found a Canadian ten-cent piece, and adding to it enough to make up the price, handed it to Potter, and left the store. Mr. Peaslee, who remembered no gift from his father other than a very occasional big copper cent, thought himself pretty generous. Had he not spent pretty nearly the price of two dozen eggs? But now a question occurred to him which he had not thought of before. How was he to get the knife to Jim? A gift from him would excite surprise, perhaps suspicion. It must not be known who had sent it. Ah, there was the post office! Going in, he pushed the little box through the barred window. "Say, Cyrus," he said to the postmaster, "kinder weigh up this consignment for me, will ye?" The postmaster weighed the box. "That will cost you six cents," he said. "Thank ye," returned Mr. Peaslee, and dropping the box into his deep pocket, departed. Half a dozen eggs more to get it to his next-door neighbor! "'T ain't right," he muttered, "'t ain't right." Uncertain what to do with his gift, but feeling, on the whole, pretty virtuous, Mr. Peaslee now started home. He thought that Jim would not be going to school, but would wait at home for the threatened coming of the constable; but still he was not sure, and he wanted to keep the boy under his eye. Suddenly he straightened. There was Judge Ames walking up the street, valise in hand, just from the early morning train. He had come a few days before the opening of court. Mr. Peaslee knew him slightly, and stood much in awe of him. He was greatly pleased when the judge stopped and shook hands with him. "I am glad to hear, Mr. Peaslee," said the judge, in his precise, lawyer-like utterance, "that you are to be on the grand jury. We need men like you there." "Thank ye, judge, thank ye," said Mr. Peaslee, overcome. And he walked on home, quite convinced that a person of his importance in the community should not be sacrificed to the comfort of any small boy. "And I've done right by the little feller, I've done right," he assured himself, feeling the knife. As he turned into his own yard, he cast an anxious eye over to the Edwards house. There sat Jim, elbows on knees, chin on hands, staring into space. Jim was thinking that his father, had he been a pirate chief, would not have wiped a filial tear from his eye whenever he thought of his mother; and the boy's face showed it. The spectacle greatly depressed Mr. Peaslee. The smallest, faintest question entered his mind whether a twenty-five-cent knife would console such melancholy. To give himself a countenance while he watched events, Solomon got a rake and began gathering together the few autumn leaves which had fluttered down in his front yard. It was not useless labor, for they would "come in handy" later in "banking up" the house. And so, presently, he saw Sam Barton, the constable, his big shoulders rolling as he walked, advancing down the street. Mr. Peaslee expected him; nevertheless his appearance gave him a disagreeable shock. Suppose the constable had been coming for him! "Ain't arrestin' anybody down this way, be ye?" he called, with a feeble attempt at jocularity. Perhaps, after all— "Looks like it," said Barton, succinctly. Mr. Peaslee stepped to the fence. "'T aint likely they'll do much to a leetle feller like that, I guess," he said, searching the constable's face. "Dunno," said Barton, passing on. Solomon, much concerned, leaned on his rake and watched him enter the Edwards house. Jim had disappeared; there was some delay. Mrs. Peaslee came to the door. "Arrestin' that Ed'ards boy, be they, Solomon?" she said. "Well, serve him right, I say, shootin' guns off so. Like father, like son. I dunno as 't was the son. I'd as soon believe it of the father. Everybody knows Lamoury and he's been mixed up together. Some of his smugglin' tricks, prob'ly." Mrs. Peaslee had taken a violent dislike to her taciturn neighbor, and she did not care who knew it. Her shrill voice seemed to her husband painfully loud, and, indeed, it was beginning to attract the attention of the group of children who had gathered about the Edwards gate. "Sh!" hissed Solomon. "Ed'ards might hear ye. 'T would hurt us if he should take his account out of the bank." "Humph!" exclaimed Mrs. Peaslee. "Well," she added, "you go to the hearin'. Justice is suthin', I guess." But she said no more, and with her husband and the children awaited events—a silent group in the silent street before the silent house. The children's eyes grew bigger and bigger with excitement. Was not Jimmy Edwards going to be arrested for mur-r-rder? the horrid whisper ran. One small boy, beginning to whimper, asked if Jimmy was "going to be hung." The occasion was solemn even to the older eyes of Mr. Peaslee. "S'posin' it was me," he said to himself. Presently Mr. Edwards, Jim, and the constable emerged from the house. Jim looked white and frightened, but was bravely trying to bear himself like a man. Mr. Edwards, his long, shaven upper lip stiff as a board, looked stern and uncompromising. Barton was as big and good-humored as ever. He turned upon the little boys and girls, and, waving his arm, cried, "Scat!" They fell back—about ten feet. Thus the procession formed: Barton and Jim, then Mr. Edwards, and—at a barely respectful distance—the crowd of youngsters. Mr. Peaslee, much moved, but trying hard not to show it, thrust his rake under the veranda with a great show of care, and joined Mr. Edwards—much to that gentleman's surprise. Solomon's heart was throbbing with a great resolution. "I always aim to be neighborly," said he, nervously lowering his voice, for he was conscious of his wife, still standing on the veranda. "Thought I'd just step along, too. I cal'late mebbe you'd like comp'ny on his bail bond," and he jerked his thumb toward Jim. It was out; he was committed, and Solomon heaved a great sigh, he knew not whether of relief or dismay. There was not indeed any risk in signing with Edwards, who was "good" for any bail that the justice was likely to require; but what would Mrs. Peaslee say if she knew! He glanced apprehensively toward the house. His wife had gone in; but, evil omen! there, sitting on a fence-post, was the Calico Cat. She was placidly washing her face; and as her paw twinkled past the big black spot round her right eye, she appeared, at that distance, to be greeting him with a derisive wink. Mr. Edwards, although his mouth shut tighter than ever at the mention of bail, was surprised and touched. "Thank you," he said. "It's kind of you to think of it." In the village, Sam ushered them into the musty law office of Squire Tucker, justice of the peace. The squire was a large, fat man, clothed in rusty black, with a carelessly knotted string tie pendent beneath a rumpled turn-down collar. He had a smooth-shaven, fat face, lighted by shrewd and kindly eyes, which gleamed at you now through, now over, his glasses. When the party entered he was writing, and merely looked up under his big eyebrows long enough to wave them all to chairs. Jim sat down, with the constable behind him and his father at his left, and studied the man in whose hands he thought that his fate rested. He watched the squire's pen go from paper to ink, ink to paper, and listened to its scratch, scratch, and to the buzz of a big fly against the dirty window-pane. Ashamed to look at any one, he looked at the lawyer's big ink-well—a great, circular affair of mottled brown wood. It had several openings, each one with its own little cork attached with a short string to the side of the stand. He had never seen one like it before. Then some one entered the room. Jim, looking sidewise, recognized Jake Hibbard, and began covertly to study his face. He knew that this flabby-faced, dirty man, with the little screwed-up eyes, and the big screwed-up mouth, stained brown at the corners with tobacco, was Pete Lamoury's lawyer. Familiar for many years to his contemptuous young eyes, Jake now looked sinister and dangerous. What were these men going to do to him? Amid his fluttering emotions and rushing thoughts one thing only stood fixed and clear: he would not tell on his father. Some day, when all trouble was past, he would let his father know that he knew all the time. Then he guessed his father would be sorry and ashamed. Now, since his father would not take him into his confidence, he would not pretend he did the shooting. That would be his only revenge. Finally, Squire Tucker, pushing his writing aside, ran his fingers through the great mass of his tumbled gray hair, and looked quizzically at Jim over his glasses. "So this," he said, "is the hardened ruffian of whom our esteemed fellow citizen, Mr. Lamoury, complains?" And indeed Jim, although stubborn, did not seem very dangerous. The squire looked about the room. "Is he represented by counsel?" he asked. "No, I represent him," said Mr. Edwards. "The charge against him is assault with intent to kill, I believe?" and he looked with demure inquiry at Jake Hibbard, who nodded with a wrath-clouded face. Tucker was not taking the case seriously. "Well, young man," said the justice to Jim, "what's your explanation of this?" "We'll waive examination," said Mr. Edwards, briefly. The squire leaned back in his chair. "I suppose," he said, with evident reluctance, "I shall have to hold him for the grand jury. But I guess the safety of the community won't be greatly threatened if I let him out on bail. I should think a couple of hundred would do. I suppose there'll be no difficulty about the bond?" The tone of the proceedings suited Mr. Peaslee well. In his nervousness and abstraction he had backed up to the rusty, empty iron stove at the end of the room, and stood there, with spread coat-tails, listening intently. On hearing the amount of bail, he gave a sigh of relief. His incautious offer had brought him no dangerous risk. Mr. Edwards, however, did not answer. Instead, consulting the justice with a look, he turned and beckoned Jim to follow him into the hall. "James," he said, "this is the last chance I shall give you. If you confess to me, I will see that you have proper bail. If you do not, I shall let the law take its course. You may choose." Jim was exasperated. If his father wished to be mean, let him be mean; at least he might drop this farce, this irritating pretense. He lost his temper. "I don't care what you do!" he said fiercely. "Send me to jail if you want to. I guess I can stand it!" "Is that all you have to say?" Jim replied with a rebellious glance. "Very well," said his father. "Then we will go back." Once in the room, he stepped to the squire's desk, and talked with him in low tones. Then the justice turned to Jim again, a new gravity in his jolly face. "Your father," he said, "refuses to go on your bond. Have you any sureties of your own to offer?" "No, sir," said Jim. Mr. Peaslee was outraged. What kind of a father was this! He half started forward to offer to be one of the two sureties which the law required, but—no, he dare not. The second surety might prove to be any sort of worthless fellow. But Jim in jail! He had not for a moment dreamed of that. He was very indignant with Mr. Edwards. Meanwhile, Jake Hibbard was studying Mr. Edwards's face with puzzled attention. He had supposed that the lumber dealer, whom he knew to be well-to-do, would have paid anything, signed any bond, to protect his boy from jail. He was disconcerted. He drew his one hand across his mouth nervously. "Well, Mr. Barton," said Squire Tucker, "I don't see but what you'll have to take this young man over to Hotel Calkins." "Hotel Calkins" was the name which local wit gave to the county jail. The words sent a cold shiver down Mr. Peaslee's back. They stung him into generosity. As Barton and his prisoner, followed by Mr. Edwards and Jake, brushed by him on their way to the door, he slipped the knife into Jim's hand. When the boy, trying to keep back the tears, looked up inquiringly, he murmured, in agitation:— "Don't ye care, sonny! Now don't ye care!" He was greatly stirred—or he would not have been so incautious as to make his present in person and in public. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/chap_4.jpg" title="Cat lying on fence." height-obs="263" width-obs="190" alt="Cat lying on fence." /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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