The Essential Winston Churchill Collection. Winston Churchill
Bijah, except that the man fascinates me. Of all the lieutenants in the state, his manners bore the closest resemblance to those of Jethro Bass. When he walked behind Jethro in the corridors of the Pelican, kicking up his heels behind, he might have been taken for Jethro's shadow. He was of a good height and size, smooth-shaven, with little eyes that kindled, and his mouth moved not at all when he spoke: unlike Jethro, he "used" tobacco.
When Bijah had driven into Coniston village and hitched his wagon to the rail, he went direct to the store. Chester Perkins and others were watching him with various emotions from the stoop, and Bijah took a seat in the midst of them, characteristically engaging in conversation without the usual conventional forms of greeting, as if he had been there all day.
"H-how much did you git for your wool, Chester--h-how much?"
"Guess you hain't here to talk about wool, Bije," said Chester, red with anger.
"Kind of neglectin' the farm lately, I hear," observed Bijah.
"Jethro Bass sent you up to find out how much I was neglectin' it," retorted Chester, throwing all caution to the winds.
"Thinkin' of upsettin' Jethro, be you? Thinkin' of upsettin' Jethro?" remarked Bije, in a genial tone.
"Folks in Clovelly hain't got nothin' to do with it, if I am," said Chester.
"Leetle early for campaignin', Chester, leetle early."
"We do our campaignin' when we're a mind to."
Bijah looked around.
"Well, that's funny. I could have took oath I seed Rias Richardson here."
There was a deep silence.
"And Sam Price," continued Bijah, in pretended astonishment, "wahn't he settin' on the edge of the stoop when I drove up?"
Another silence, broken only by the enraged breathing of Chester, who was unable to retort. Moses Hatch laughed. The discreet departure of these gentlemen certainly had its comical side.
"Rias as indoostrious as ever, Mose?" inquired Bijah.
"He has his busy times," said Mose, grinning broadly.
"See you've got the boys with their backs up, Chester," said Bijah.
"Some of us are sick of tyranny," cried Chester; "you kin tell that to Jethro Bass when you go back, if he's got time to listen to you buyin' and sellin' out of railroads."
"Hear Jethro's got the Grand Gulf Road in his pocket to do as he's a mind to with," said Moses, with a view to drawing Bijah out. But the remark had exactly the opposite effect, Bijah screwing up his face into an expression of extraordinary secrecy and cunning.
"How much did you git out of it, Bije?" demanded Chester.
"Hain't looked through my clothes yet," said Bijah, his face screwed up tighter than ever. "N-never look through my clothes till I git home, Chester, it hain't safe."
It has become painfully evident that Mr. Bixby is that rare type of man who can sit down under the enemy's ramparts and smoke him out. It was a rule of Jethro's code either to make an effective departure or else to remain and compel the other man to make an ineffective departure. Lem Hallowell might have coped with him; but the stage was late, and after some scratching of heads and delving for effectual banter (through which Mr. Bixby sat genial and unconcerned), Chester's followers took their leave, each choosing his own pretext.
In the meantime William Wetherell had entered the store by the back door--unperceived, as he hoped. He had a vehement desire to be left in peace, and to avoid politics and political discussions forever--vain desire for the storekeeper of Coniston. Mr. Wetherell entered the store, and to take his mind from his troubles, he picked up a copy of Byron: gradually the conversation on the stoop died away, and just as he was beginning to congratulate himself and enjoy the book, he had an unpleasant sensation of some one approaching him measuredly. Wetherell did not move; indeed, he felt that he could not--he was as though charmed to the spot. He could have cried aloud, but the store was empty, and there was no one to hear him. Mr. Bixby did not speak until he was within a foot of his victim's ear. His voice was very nasal, too.
"Wetherell, hain't it?"
The victim nodded helplessly.
"Want to see you a minute."
"What is it?"
"Where can we talk private?" asked Mr. Bixby, looking around.
"There's no one here," Wetherell answered. "What do you wish to say?"
"If the boys was to see me speakin' to you, they might git suspicious--you understand," he confided, his manner conveying a hint that they shared some common policy.
"I don't meddle with politics," said Wetherell, desperately.
"Exactly!" answered Bijah, coming even closer. "I knowed you was a level-headed man, moment I set eyes on you. Made up my mind I'd have a little talk in private with you--you understand. The boys hain't got no reason to suspicion you care anything about politics, have they?"
"None whatever."
"You don't pay no attention to what they say?"
"None."
"You hear it?"
"Sometimes I can't help it."
"Ex'actly! You hear it."
"I told you I couldn't help it."
"Want you should vote right when the time comes," said Bijah. "D-don't want to see such an intelligent man go wrong an' be sorry for it--you understand. Chester Perkins is hare-brained. Jethro Bass runs things in this state."
"Mr. Bixby--"
"You understand," said Bijah, screwing up his face. "Guess your watch is a-comin' out." He tucked it back caressingly, and started for the door--the back door. Involuntarily Wetherell put his hand to his pocket, felt something crackle under it, and drew the something out. To his amazement it was a ten-dollar bill.
"Here!" he cried so sharply in his fright that Mr. Bixby, turned around. Wetherell ran after him. "Take this back!"
"Guess you got me," said Bijah. "W-what is it?"
"This money is yours," cried Wetherell, so loudly that Bijah started and glanced at the front of the store.
"Guess you made some mistake," he said, staring at the storekeeper with such amazing innocence that he began to doubt his senses, and clutched the bill to see if it was real.
"But I had no money in my pocket," said Wetherell, perplexedly. And then, gaining, indignation, "Take this to the man who sent you, and give it back to him."
But Bijah merely whispered caressingly in his ear, "Nobody sent me,--you understand,--nobody sent me," and was gone. Wetherell stood for a moment, dazed by the man's audacity, and then, hurrying to the front stoop, the money still in his hand, he perceived Mr. Bixby in the sunlit road walking, Jethro-fashion, toward Ephraim Prescott's harness shop.
"Why, Daddy," said Cynthia, coming in from the garden, "where did you get all that money? Your troubles must feel better."
"It is not mine," said Wetherell, starting. And then, quivering with anger and mortification, he sank down on the stoop to debate what he should do.