FullReads

And Jonadab! he wa’n’t fit to live with. The third forenoon after Van Wedderburn got there he come around and took the quarter bet. And the way he crowed over me made my hands itch for a rope’s end. Finally I owned up to myself that I’d made a mistake; the girl was a whitewashed tombstone and the whitewash was rubbing thin. That night I dropped a line to poor Jonesy at Providence, telling him that, if he could get a day off, maybe he’d better come down to Wellmouth, and see to his fences; somebody was feeding cows in his pasture.

The next day was Labor Day, and what was left of the boarders was going for a final picnic over to Baker’s Grove at Ostable. We went, three catboats full of us, and Van and Mabel Seabury was in the same boat. We made the grove all right, and me and Jonadab had our hands full, baking clams and chasing spiders out of the milk, and doing all the chores that makes a picnic so joyfully miserable. When the dinner dishes was washed I went off by myself to a quiet bunch of bayberry bushes half a mile from the grove and laid down to rest, being beat out.

I guess I fell asleep, and what woke me was somebody speaking close by. I was going to get up and clear out, not being in the habit of listening to other folks’ affairs, but the very first words I heard showed me that ’twas best, for the feelings of all concerned, to lay still and keep on with my nap.

“Oh, no!” says Mabel Seabury, dreadful nervous and hurried-like; “oh, no! Mr. Van Wedderburn, please don’t say any more. I can’t listen to you, I’m so sorry.”

“Do you mean that–really mean it?” asks Van, his voice rather shaky and seemingly a good deal upset. “My dear young lady, I realize that I’m twice your age and more, and I suppose that I was an old fool to hope; but I’ve had trouble lately, and I’ve been very lonely, and you have been so kind that I thought–I did hope– I– Can’t you?”

“No,” says she, more nervous than ever, and shaky, too, but decided. “No! Oh, NO! It’s all my fault. I wanted you to like me; I wanted you to like me very much. But not this way. I’m– I’m–so sorry. Please forgive me.”

She walked on then, fast, and toward the grove, and he followed, slashing at the weeds with his cane, and acting a good deal as if he’d like to pick up his playthings and go home. When they was out of sight I set up and winked, large and comprehensive, at the scenery. It looked to me like I was going to collect Jonadab’s quarter.

That night as I passed the lilac bushes by the gate, somebody steps out and grabs my arm. I jumped, looked up, and there, glaring down at me out of the clouds, was friend Jones from Providence, R. I.

“Wingate,” he whispers, fierce, “who is the man? And where is he?”

“Easy,” I begs. “Easy on that arm. I might want to use it again. What man?”

“That man you wrote me about. I’ve come down here to interview him. Confound him! Who is he?”

“Oh, it’s all right now,” says I. “There was an old rooster from New York who was acting too skittish to suit me, but I guess it’s all off. His being a millionaire and a stock-jobber was what scart me fust along. He’s a hundred years old or so; name of Van Wedderburn.”

“WHAT?” he says, pinching my arm till I could all but feel his thumb and finger meet. “What? Stop joking. I’m not funny to- night.”