University of Virginia Library

3. III

HIS sudden flare of erudition gained for Mr. Coppins all the popularity of a game-warden. Not since the smallpox epidemic of 1871 had Brookfield been visited by such a pest. The male residents of voting age learned how to disappear around corners or into doorways when they saw Caleb Coppins approaching. The principal of the high school discovered a circuitous route from his home to the school that took only ten minutes longer to travel. Children instinctively shunned this prodigy of information, because Caleb had been reduced, once or twice, to the necessity of holding them up and demanding an answer to the question:

"Which is the longest bridge in the world?"

But the thing that most envenomed Mr. Coppins's former associates of the stuffy

room at the rear of the barber-shop was the fact that Caleb had gained no small credit with the feminine part of Brookfield society. Local hostesses who had run short of attractions took him up. He became a lion. The proper thing to do, it developed, was to serve some small refreshments, and then, after the dishes had been spirited away from the parlor, to turn to some harried young male victim and say:

"Mr. Peters, wouldn't you like to ask Mr. Coppins a question?"

In such cases Mr. Coppins would sit back comfortably into the upholstery and cock his head attentively, while Mr. Peters would shrink to the size of a dwarfed child, cough nervously, and ask to be excused from such a wild adventure. Whereupon the forty-third-degree bibliophile would say nonchalantly:

"Oh, go on, Peters, ask me something difficult!"

And then, failing to arouse the fighting spirit of his paltry opponent, Mr. Coppins would ask himself questions and answer them with careless celerity.

Down at the pool-table, one night, Mr. Calkins paused over his shot and remarked to the smoke-embalmed gathering:

"Say, what do you think of this feller Coppins, anyway?"

"I think he's a big bluff," responded a slender youth. "I been thinking it over, and I come to the conclusion that he don't know the answers to half the questions he asks. You notice he always says he knows, but he never tells what it is."

"Well, why don't you call his bluff?" asked Mr. Calkins.

The slender youth hitched nervously and replied:

"Aw, what's the use?"

"He's making a great hit with the women," said another man. "You can't go to a party, or anything, these days, without having Coppins rubbed under your nose. We got to do something to that wise gent, or he'll have us back in the peg-top class, or rolling hoop, or something!"

"Where'd he get all that information?" asked some one.

"Gosh, I dunno," replied the grocer. "He never used to know beans; and all of a sudden he launches out as a regular college president!"

"Somebody's got to call his bluff, if he's bluffing. If he isn't, somebody's got to inveigle him into a vacant lot and wallop him," said the grocer.

"He's bluffing, all right," affirmed the slender youth.

"Well, who's going to call him?"

The slender youth thought for a moment and then replied:

"What do you say we get young Harold Hussey?"

"Harold Hussey!" echoed half a dozen sneering, raucous voices. "That little shrimp?"

"He may be a shrimp," was the reply; "but what makes him a shrimp? Ain't it because he studies too much? Ain't it because he spends so much time playing the piano and reading magazines and things? Ain't it because his head is so loaded with information that he don't have any time for the pleasures of life? What more do you want?"

"By thunder, he's right!" admitted Calkins. "Harold is the boy. If there's any one in this town that can hand it to Caleb, it's little Harold Hussey. But will he do it? Harold hasn't got the nerve of a chipmunk."

"He'll do it," continued the slender youth, "if you can get him on a subject he's interested in. You just mention music, and you'll see his eyes looking almost human. He knows more about music and musicians than Caleb Coppins could learn in the rest of his lifetime. Me for Harold Hussey!"

"Somebody go get him," said the grocer. "He won't be in bed yet, I guess. It's only quarter of eight. Bring him here to talk it over."

"No, he couldn't stand the atmosphere of this room," objected Wells, the butcher. "He'd faint. We'd better appoint a delegation to wait on Harold and groom him for the occasion. We'll promise him a box of the best fudge if he'll do it."

"There's a great chance coming the night after to-morrow," said the slender youth. "Mrs. Hastings is going to have a surprise party for George Hastings, and everybody's going to turn out to see George try to look surprised. You see, George was the one that thought of the idea. Everybody that comes is supposed to bring something to eat, and it 'll stock up the Hastingses with pie and cake enough for a month, at least. That's the time to spring little Harold Hussey on Coppins."

Half an hour later a couple of the men returned to the barber-shop with the glad news that Harold had consented to propound a number of questions on the momentous occasion. At least, Harold's mother had consented to permit Harold to consent, which was just as good, if not better.

Whereupon a dozen strong men, each shouldering a cue, formed in line and marched around the pool-table, pausing now and then to slap one another on the back and utter some horrible imprecation against Caleb Coppins.