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Blueskin, The Pirate
by
He stopped again, and still Hiram said nothing. “And look’ee, Hiram,” the old man resumed, suddenly, “I do hear that you be courtin’ the girl, too; is that so?”
“Yes,” said Hiram, “I’m courtin’ her, too.”
“Tut! tut!” said the Squire, “that’s a pity, Hiram. I’m afraid your cakes are dough.”
After he had left the Squire’s office, Hiram stood for a while in the street, bareheaded, his hat in his hand, staring unwinkingly down at the ground at his feet, with stupidly drooping lips and lackluster eyes. Presently he raised his hand and began slowly smoothing down the sandy shock of hair upon his forehead. At last he aroused himself with a shake, looked dully up and down the street, and then, putting on his hat, turned and walked slowly and heavily away.
The early dusk of the cloudy winter evening was settling fast, for the sky was leaden and threatening. At the outskirts of the town Hiram stopped again and again stood for a while in brooding thought. Then, finally, he turned slowly, not the way that led homeward, but taking the road that led between the bare and withered fields and crooked fences toward Billy Martin’s.
It would be hard to say just what it was that led Hiram to seek Billy Martin’s house at that time of day–whether it was fate or ill fortune. He could not have chosen a more opportune time to confirm his own undoing. What he saw was the very worst that his heart feared.
Along the road, at a little distance from the house, was a mock-orange hedge, now bare, naked, leafless. As Hiram drew near he heard footsteps approaching and low voices. He drew back into the fence corner and there stood, half sheltered by the stark network of twigs. Two figures passed slowly along the gray of the roadway in the gloaming. One was his stepbrother, the other was Sally Martin. Levi’s arm was around her, he was whispering into her ear, and her head rested upon his shoulder.
Hiram stood as still, as breathless, as cold as ice. They stopped upon the side of the road just beyond where he stood. Hiram’s eyes never left them. There for some time they talked together in low voices, their words now and then reaching the ears of that silent, breathless listener.
Suddenly there came the clattering of an opening door, and then Betty Martin’s voice broke the silence, harshly, shrilly: “Sal!–Sal!–Sally Martin! You, Sally Martin! Come in yere. Where be ye?”
The girl flung her arms around Levi’s neck and their lips met in one quick kiss. The next moment she was gone, flying swiftly, silently, down the road past where Hiram stood, stooping as she ran. Levi stood looking after her until she was gone; then he turned and walked away whistling.
His whistling died shrilly into silence in the wintry distance, and then at last Hiram came stumbling out from the hedge. His face had never looked before as it looked then.
IX
Hiram was standing in front of the fire with his hands clasped behind his back. He had not touched the supper on the table. Levi was eating with an appetite. Suddenly he looked over his plate at his stepbrother.
“How about that five hundred pounds, Hiram?” said he. “I gave ye a month to raise it and the month ain’t quite up yet, but I’m goin’ to leave this here place day after to-morrow–by next day at the furd’st–and I want the money that’s mine.”
“I paid it to Squire Hall to-day and he has it fer ye,” said Hiram, dully.
Levi laid down his knife and fork with a clatter. “Squire Hall!” said he, “what’s Squire Hall got to do with it? Squire Hall didn’t have the use of that money. It was you had it and you have got to pay it back to me, and if you don’t do it, by G—-, I’ll have the law on you, sure as you’re born.”