The Jack-Knife Man. Butler Ellis Parker
no time. Just you let me help you over on to my bunk. I ain’t got a chair or I’d offer it to you whilst I run up to one of my neighbors and get you a bite to eat. I’ve got good neighbors. That’s one thing!”
The woman caught Peter by the arm and drew herself up, laughing weakly at her weakness. She tottered, but Peter led her to the bunk with all the courtesy of a Raleigh escorting an Elizabeth, and she dropped on the edge of the bunk and sat there warming her hands and staring at the stove. She seemed still near exhaustion.
“If you’ll excuse me, now, ma’am,” said Peter, when he had made sure she was not going to faint again, “I’ll just step across to my neighbor’s and get something for the boy to eat. I won’t probably be gone more than a minute, and whilst I’m gone I’ll arrange for a place for me to sleep to-night. You hadn’t ought to make that boy walk no further to-night. It’s a real bad night outside.”
“That’s all right. I don’t want to chase you out,” said the woman.
“Not at all,” said Peter politely. “I frequently sleep elsewheres. It’ll be no trouble at all to make arrangements.”
He put more wood in the stove, opened the dampers, and lighted his lantern. Then he pinned his coat close about his neck with a blanket pin, and, as he passed the clock shelf, slipped the alarm swiftly from its place and hid it beneath his coat.
“I’ll be right back, as soon as I can,” he said, and, drawing his worn felt hat down over his eyes, he stepped out hastily and slammed the door behind him.
“Why did the man take the clock?” asked the boy as the door closed.
“I guess he thought I’d steal it,” said the woman languidly.
“Would you steal it?” asked the boy.
“I guess so,” the woman answered, and closed her eyes,
III. PETER LODGES OUT
AS Peter crossed the icy plank that led from his boat to the railway embankment he tried to whistle, but the wind was too strong and sharp, and he drew his head between his shoulders and closed his mouth tightly. He had understated the distance to Widow Potter’s when he had said it was “just across.” In fair weather and daylight he often cut across the corn-field, but on such a night as this the trip meant a long plod up the railway track until he came to the crossing, and then a longer tramp back the slushy road, a good half mile in all. When he turned in at Widow Potter’s open gate a great yellow dog came rushing at him, barking, but a word from Peter silenced him and the dog fell behind obediently but watchfully, and followed Peter to where the light shone through the widow’s kitchen window. Peter rapped on the door.
“Who’s out there?” Mrs. Potter called sharply. “I got a gun in here, and I ain’t afraid to use it If you ‘re a tramp, you’d better git!”
“It’s Peter Lane,” Peter called, loud enough to be heard above the wind. “I want to buy a couple of eggs off you, Mrs. Potter.”
The door opened the merest crack and Mrs. Potter peered out. She did not have a gun, but she held a stove poker. When she saw Peter she opened the door wide. It was a brusk welcome.
“Of all the shiftlessness I ever heard of, Peter Lane,” she said angrily, “you beat all! Cormin’ for eggs this time of night when your boat’s been in the cove nobody knows how long. I suppose it never come into your head to get eggs until you got hungry for them, did it?”
Peter closed the door and stood with his back to it. At all times he feared Mrs. Potter, but especially when he gave her some cause for reproof.
“I had some company drop in on me unexpected, Mrs. Potter,” he said apologetically. “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have bothered you. I hate it worse’n you do.”
“Tramps, I dare say,” said the widow. “You ‘re that shiftless you’d give the shoes off your feet and the food out of your mouth to feed any good-for-nothing that come camping on you. You don’t get my good eggs to feed such trash, Peter Lane! Winter eggs are worth money.”
“I thought to pay for them,” said Peter meekly. “I wouldn’t ask them of you any other way, Mrs. Potter.”
“Well, if you ‘ve got the money I suppose I’ve got to let you have them,” said the widow grudgingly. “Eggs is worth three cents apiece, and I hate to have ‘em fed to tramps. How many do you want to buy?” Peter shifted from one foot to another uncomfortably. “Well, now, I’m what you might call a little short of ready money tonight,” he said. “I thought maybe I might come over and saw some wood for you tomorrow – ”
“And so you can,” said Mrs. Potter promptly, “and when the wood is sawed they will be paid for, in eggs or money, and not until it is sawed. I’m not going to encourage you to run into debt. You ‘re shiftless enough now, goodness knows.”
Peter tried to smile and ignored the accusation.
“There couldn’t be anything fairer than that,” he said. “Nobody ought to object to that sort of arrangement at all. That’s real business-like. Only, there’s a small boy amongst the company that dropped in on me and he’s only about so high – ” Peter showed a height that would have been small for an infant dwarf. “He’s a real nice little fellow, and if you was ever a boy that high, and crying because you wanted something to eat – ”
“I don’t believe a word of it!” snapped Mrs. Potter. “If there is a child down there he ought to be in bed long ago.”
“Yes’m,” agreed Peter meekly. “That’s so. You wouldn’t put even a dog that size to bed hungry. So, if you could let me have about half-a-dozen eggs, I’ll go right back.”
“Six eggs at three cents is eighteen cents,” said Mrs. Potter firmly, looking Peter directly in the eye. She was not bad looking. Her cheek bones were rather high and prominent and her cheeks hollow, and she had a strong chin for a woman, but the downward twist of discouragement that had marked her mouth during her later married years had already disappeared, giving place to a firmness that told she was well able to manage her own affairs. Peter drew his alarm-clock from beneath his coat and stood it on the kitchen table.
“I brought along this alarm-clock,” he said, “so you’d know I’d come back like I say I will. She’s a real good clock. I paid eighty cents for her when she was new, and I just fixed her up fresh to-day. She’s running quite – quite a little, since I fixed her.”
Mrs. Potter did not look at the clock. She looked at Peter.
“So!” she exclaimed. “So that’s what you’ve come to, Peter Lane! Pawnin’ your goods and chattels! That’s what shiftless folks always come to in the end.”
“And so, if you’ll let me have half-a-dozen eggs, and maybe some pieces of bread and butter and a handful of coffee,” said Peter, “I’ll leave the clock right here as security that I’ll come up first thing in the morning and saw wood ‘til you tell me I’ve sawed enough.”
Mrs. Potter took the clock in her hand and looked at Peter.
“How old did you say that boy is?” she asked.
“Goin’ on three, I should judge. He’s a real nice little feller,” said Peter eagerly.
Mrs. Potter put the clock on her kitchen table.
“Fiddlesticks! I don’t believe a word of it. Who else have you got down there?”
“Just his – his parent,” said Peter, blushing. “I wisht you could see that little feller. Maybe I’ll bring him up here to-morrow and let you see him.”
“Maybe you won’t!” said the widow. “If you ‘re hungry you can set down and I’ll fry you as many eggs as you want to eat, but you can’t come over me with no story about visitors bringin’ you children on a night like this! No, sir! You don’t get none of my eggs for your worthless tramps. Shall I fry you some?”
Peter looked down and frowned. Then he raised his head and looked full in the widow’s eyes