University of Virginia Library

3. III.

The windows at the Oakery are open, and the
warm air of a Sunday summer evening pours in,
as Augusta pours out the tea. The Captain burns
his mouth with the first cup, turns the tea into the
saucer, blows it to cool it, drinks it off hastily,
takes a snap at the thin, white slice of bread on
his plate, takes another snap at a radish somewhat
overcharged with salt, wipes his mouth, goes to the
window and calls out “Jim!” Jim appears at the
stable-door with a wisp of straw and a curry-comb.
“Put in the hosses!” Jim telegraphs with the

curry-comb, “All right, Sir!” Augusta stares at
Adolphus, and Adolphus brushes the metaphysical
films from his eyes, and, for once, seems wide
awake. The Captain takes his seat and a fresh
snap at the bread. Augusta looks at him steadily.
“Why, brother, where are you going with the
horses on Sunday afternoon?” The Captain squints
at the bread, and answers, “To Mewker's.”
“Mewker's!” repeats Augusta; “Mewker's! why,
brother, you're crazy; they never receive company
on Sunday. You know how strictly pious
Mr. Mewker is, and he would look at you with
amazement. To see you riding, too! why—I—
never!”

The Captain, however, said nothing, but waited,
with some impatience, until Spec and Shat turned
out with the carriage from the stable. Then he
took the ribbons, stopped, threw them down, went
up into the tower, came back with a clean shirt on,
climbed into the seat, and drove off.

“He'll come back from there in a hurry, I
guess,” said Augusta to the wondering Adolphus.

But the Captain did not return until eleven that
night, and then somewhat elevated with wine.
“Augushta,” said he, as the procession formed as

usual on the stairs, “that Mucous'sha clever feller,
heesha clever feller, heesha dev'lish clever feller;
heesh fond of talking on church matters, and sho
'mi. His shister, sheesha another clever feller,
she's a chump! I asked'em to come to-morrow to
tea, and shaid they would.”

“Why, brother, to-morrow is Monday, washing-day!”
replied the astonished spinster.

“Tha's a fac, Gushta, fac,” answered the Captain,
as he took the candle from his sister at the tower-door;
“but, wash or no wash, musht come. When
I ask'em to come, musht come. Goo-ni!”

The bolts are closed on the several doors, scarp
and counterscarp, ditch and glacis are wrapped in
slumber; but the Captain lies wide awake, looking
through the slits in the tower casement at the
Great Bear in the sky, and thinking rapturously of
the lovely Lasciver.

Never did the old family carriage have such a
polishing as on that Monday morning. Never did
Jim so bestir himself with the harness as on that
day under the eye of Belgrave. The Captain
neglects to take his accustomed ride to the village
in the morning, that Spec and Shat may be in condition
for the afternoon. At last the carriage rolls

down the road from the Oakery, with Jim on the
box, and the Captain retires to dress for company. In
due course the carriage returns with Spec and Shat
somewhat blown with an over-load; for all the
young Mewkers are piled up inside, on the laps of
Mrs. Mewker and the lovely Lasciver. Then
Augusta hurries into the kitchen to tell Hannah,
the help, to cut more bread for the brats; and Adolphus
is hurried out into the garden to pull more
radishes; and the young Mewker tribe get into his
little library, and revel in his choice books, and
quarrel over them, and scatter some leaves and
covers on the floor as trophies of the fight. Then
the tea is brought on, and the lovely Lasciver tries
in vain to soften the asperity of Augusta; and then
Mewker takes her in hand, and does succeed, and
in a remarkable degree, too. Meanwhile the
ciphers of the party, Mrs. Mewker and Adolphus,
drink and eat in silence. Then they adjourn to
the porch, and Mewker sits beside Augusta, and
entertains her with an account of the missions in
Surinam, to which she turns an attentive ear-Then
Mrs. Mewker says it is time to go, “on
account of the children,” at which Mewker
darts a petrifying look at her, and turns with a
smile to Augusta, who, in the honesty of her heart,
says “she, too, thinks it is best for the young ones
to go to bed early. Then Jim is summoned from
the stable, and Spec and Shat; and the Mewkers
take leave, and whirl along the road again toward
home.

It was long before the horses returned, for Jim
drove back slowly. There was not a tenderer
heart in the world than the one which beat in the
bosom of that small old boy of sixty. He sat
perched upon the box, calling out, “Gently, soho!”
to Spec and Shat, when they advanced beyond a
walk, and held a talk with himself in this wise:
“I don't want to carry that old carcase agin. He
gits in and praises up the Cap'n so as I can hear
him, and then asks me if I won't lay the whip on
the hosses. Says I, `Mr. Mewker, them hosses has
been druv.' Says he, `Yes, James, but you can
give'em a good rubbin' down when you get to
hum, and that will fetch'em all right.' Now, I
want to know if you take a man, and lay a whip
onto him, and make him travel till he's sore, whether
rubbin' down is a-goin' to make him all right?
No, Sir. Then he calls me James. I don't want
no man to call me James; my name's Jim. There

was old Midgely; he called me James; didn't he
coax out of me all I'd saved up for more'n twenty
years, and then busted? There was Deacon
Cotton; didn't he come in over the Captain with
that pork? He called me James, too. And there
was that psalm-singin' pedlar that got Miss Augusty
to lend him the colt; he called me James. Did he
bring the colt back? No, Sir; at least not yit, and
it's more'n three years ago. When a man calls me
James, I take my eye and places it onto him. I
hearn him when he tells Miss Mewker not to give
beggars nothin'. I hearn him. He sez they may
be impostors! Well, 'spose they be? When a feller-creetur'
gits so low as to beg, haven't they got
low enough? Aint they ragged, dirty, despised?
Don't they run a chance of starvin', impostors or
not, if every body drives 'em off? And what great
matter is it if they do get a-head of you, for a crumb
or a cent? When I see a feller-creatur' in rags,
beggin', I say human natur' has got low enough;
it's in rags! it begs! it's 'way down, and it don't
make much difference if it's actin' or not. Them
aint impostors that will do much harm. Them aint
impostors like old Midgely, and Deacon Cotton,
and that old psalm-singin' pedlar that borrowed the
colt; at least they don't cut it so fat. But 'spose
they don't happen to be impostors, arter all?
Whar's that account to be squared? I guess I'd
rayther be the beggar than the other man when
that account is squared. I guess when that account
is squared, it will kind a-look as if the impostor
wasn't the one that asked for the stale bread, but
the one that wouldn't give it. Seems as if I've
heard 'em tell about a similar case somewhere.”

A good rubbing down, indeed, for Spec and Shat
that night, and a well-filled manger too. When
Jim picked up his stable-lantern, he gave each
horse a pat on the head, and a parting hug, and
then backed out, with his eyes still on them.
“Spec!” said he at the door. Spec gave a whinny
in reply. “Shat!” Shat responded also. “Good-night,
old boys! Old Jim aint a-goin' to lay no
whip onto you. If old Jim wants to lay a whip
onto something, it won't be onto you, that's been
spavined and had the bots, and he's cured 'em, and
they know it, hey! No, Sir. His 'tipathy works
outside into another quarter. Is my name James?
Well, it aint. It's Jim, isn't it? Yes, Sir!”