The Debtor. Mary Eleanor Wilkins Freeman
pounds has went since election, sure.”
“Shet up,” replied Flynn, carefully scraping his patron's face. He said “Shet up” with an expression of foolish pride. The postmaster of Banbridge, who was sitting somewhat aloof and held himself with a constraint of exclusiveness (he was new to his office and had not yet lost the taste of its dignity), laughed.
“Let me see, how many votes did you have this year, John?” he asked, condescendingly.
“Five,” replied John, with open exultation.
“Now, John, why didn't you get more than that, I'd like to know?”
Flynn laughed knowingly. “Oh,” he said, “it's the old story—not money enough.”
“But a lot promised they'd vote for you, didn't they, John?” persisted the postmaster, Sigsbee Ray, with a wink of humorous confidence at the others.
“Yep, but damme, who expects anybody to keep an election promise if he ain't paid for it? I ain't unreasonable. What's elections for? You wait.”
“Haven't you given up yet, John?”
“Well, I guess not. You wait.”
“Say, John,” interposed Amidon, “how much did you pay them five what voted for you this year, hey?”
Flynn looked up from Rosenstein's belathered face with a burst of simple triumph. “I didn't pay any of them a penny,” said he. “There is damn fools everywhere, and you wait,” said he, “an' see ef there ain't more come to light next time. I'll fetch it yet, along of the fools, an' ef I can raise a leetle money, an' I begin to see my way clear to that.”
“How's that?” John was asked by the small young man.
“I'm layin' low 'bout that,” replied John, mysteriously.
“Now, John,” said the postmaster, “you wouldn't lay low if there was a good chance to make some money, and not give us poor devils a chance?”
The postmaster spoke consciously. He expected what came, the buzz of remonstrance at his classing himself in his new office with poor devils.
“You'd better talk about poor devils,” growled the milkman, Tappan. “You'd better talk. Huh! here you be, don't hev to git to work till eight o'clock, an' quittin' at eight nights, and fifteen hundred a year. You'd better talk, Mr. Ray. If you was a man gittin' up at three of a winter's mornin', and settin' out with a milk-route at four, an' makin' 'bout half a penny a quart, an' cussed at that 'cause it ain't all cream—if you was as dead tired as I be this minute you might talk.”
“Well, I'm willing to allow that I am not as hard pushed as you are,” said the postmaster, with magnanimous humility.
“You'd better. Poor devils, huh! I guess I know what poor devils be, and the hell they're in. Bet your life I do. Huh!”
“I'm a poor devil 'nough myself, when it comes to that,” said Amidon, “but I reckon you kin speak for yourself when it comes to talkin' about bein' in hell, Tappan. Fur's I'm concerned, I'm findin' this a purty comfertable sort of place.”
Amidon was a tall man, and he stretched his length luxuriously as he spoke. Tappan eyed him malignantly. He was not a pleasant-tempered man, and now he was both weary and impatient of waiting for his turn with the barber.
“I should think any man might be comfortable, ef he had a wife takin' boarders to support him, but mebbe if she was to be asked to tell the truth, she'd tell a different story,” he said. Tappan spoke in a tone of facetious rage, and the others laughed, all except the barber. He had a curious respect for his landlady's husband.
“Ef a lady has the undisposition to let her husband subside on her bounty, it is between them twain. Who God has joined together, let no man set asunder,” said he, bombastically, and even the surly milkman, and Rosenstein under his manipulating razor, when a laugh was dangerous, laughed. John Flynn, when he waxed didactic, and made use of large words and phrases, was the comic column of Banbridge.
Amidon, thus defended, chuckled also, albeit rather foolishly, and slouched to the door. “Guess I'll drop up and git the Sunday paper. I'll be in later on, John,” he mumbled. He had the grace to be somewhat ashamed both by the attack and by the defence, and was for edging out, but stopped on the threshold of the door, arrested by something which the small man said.
“Talkin' about poor devils, there's one man in Banbridge ain't no poor devil. S'pose you know we've got a J. P. Morgan right amongst us?”
“Who?” asked the postmaster; and Amidon, directly now the conversation was thoroughly shifted from himself, returned to his former place.
“I know who he means,” said he, importantly. “Oh, it's the man what's rented the Ranger place. They say he's a millionaire.”
The milkman straightened himself interestedly. “I rather guess he is,” said he. “They take two quarts of cream every morning, and three quarts of milk.”
“Lord!” said the barber, gaping over his patron's head. “Lord!”
Although very short and slight, the barber had a large face, simple, amiable with a smirk of conceit as to the lower part; his forehead was very large and round, as was his head, and his blue eyes were very placid, even beautiful. The barber never laughed.
“Two quarts of cream!” said the small man. “Whew!”
“He must be rich if he takes all that cream,” said the postmaster. “A half a pint a day about breaks me, but my wife must have it for her coffee.”
Rosenstein had so far got his freedom of speech, for the barber had never ceased operation to speak, though rather guardedly. “He must be rich,” he said. “Any man in Banbridge that buys as much as he does from a store in the place, an' wants his bills regular every Saturday night, has got somethin'.”
“Has he paid 'em?” asked the postmaster.
“All except the last one, an' that he didn't pay because I couldn't cash a check for five hundred and give him the balance. ‘Lord, sir,’ says I, ‘ef you want a check of that value cashed, you'll have to go to John Wanamaker. That's as much as I take in Banbridge in a whole year.’ ‘Well, mebbe you'll do better this year,’ says he, laughing, and goes out. He's a fine-spoken man, an' it was a lucky day for Banbridge when he come here.”
“He don't buy many postage-stamps,” said the postmaster, thoughtfully, “but he asked me if I should be able to let him have as much as ten dollars' worth at a time, ef he wanted 'em, an' I said I should, an' I've just ordered in more. An' he has a big mail.”
The barber had been opening his mouth and catching his breath preparatory to speaking and saying more than any of them. Now he spoke: “That man's wuth a mighty lot of money now,” said he, “but what he's wuth now ain't nothin' to what he's goin' to be wuth some day.”
“What do you mean, John?” asked Amidon, patronizingly.
“Well, now, I'll tell you what I mean. That man, it's Cap. Carroll what's just arraigned to Banbridge that you're all talkin' about, ain't it?”
“Yes. Go ahead.”
“Well, now, Cap. Carroll is agoin' to be one of them great clapatalists, ef he ain't now,” he said.
“How?”
“Well, he got holt of some stock that's goin' to bust the market and turn Wall Street into a mill-stream in less than a year, ef it keeps on as it has went so fur.”
“What is it?” asked the small man.
The milkman sighed wearily. “Oh, slow up yer jaw, and gimme a chance sometime,” he growled. “I want to git home an' git my breakfast. I'm hungry.”
Flynn began hurriedly finishing off Rosenstein, talking with no less eagerness as he did so. “Well,