Chapter VII

The Farringtons

Silas Farrington flung himself out of his sleigh and handed the reins to a young man who had come forth from the store.

"What are ye so slow about?" he snarled. "Here I've been callin' fer the last five minutes. Why don't ye hustle when I call?"

"I was running molasses," came the surly reply, "and how could I leave--"

"There now, no back talk; I never allow it. Put up the horse, an' don't spend all day about it, either."

With these words Farrington made his way to the house, leaving the young man inwardly cursing his unjust master.

"Ye're late, Si," a voice exclaimed, as he opened the door and entered. "We've been waitin' fer ye a full hour or more."

"I couldn't help it," Farrington replied. "I was delayed."

"An' how much did ye pay fer the farm, Si?"

"Farm be--be--hanged! I'm sick of it."

"But didn't ye git it, Si?" his wife persisted.

"Git it? No!"

"What!"

"I said no!"

"But who did, then?"

"The parson." "What! Parson John?"

"Certainly. Who else would be fool enough to interfere with me?"

"Well, well!" ejaculated Mrs. Farrington. "Do tell us about it, Si?"

"No, not a word more about it," snapped her husband, "till we git down to dinner. I'm most starved. Is it ready?"

"Dear me, yes. I'd clean fergot about it," and Mrs. Farrington bustled off to the kitchen.

Everything in the dining-room betokened care and industry, from the nicely-papered walls, adorned with pictures, to the large sideboard, with its display of old china and glassware. The table-linen was spotlessly clean, and the food served up was well cooked. But, notwithstanding this, something seemed wrong. An indefinable atmosphere pervaded the place which spoiled the effect of it all. It was not the corrupted English falling from the lips of these people which grated so harshly upon the senses. It was the spirit of pretence which overshadowed everything--the effort to be what they were not. Had old Titbottom been there with his magic spectacles, he would have beheld in Farrington little more than a roll of bills; in his wife the very essence of pretence and ambition; while the daughter Eudora and their son Dick would be labelled "exact samples" of the parents.

Farrington told of the auction in no measured terms. He was annoyed at the unexpected outcome and did not try to conceal his anger. The inserted exclamations of the family told their own tale. They were much disappointed, especially Mrs. Farrington.

"Only think!" she cried, when her husband had ended, "that the parson above all men should interfere in this matter! Him that's allus talkin' about lovin' our neighbours as ourselves, standin' a-tween us an' our natral rights. I hev often told Eudora, heven't I, dear? that we need a better place than this. Now, that Frenelle homestead is jist what we want, an' it seemed as if the Lord intended we should hev it, too. It is so included from all pryin' eyes, an' away from them country people who are so uncongenial. Their manners are so rough an' they know so little about proper equity. The parson knows very well that we are city bred, an' that our descendants hev allus had good blood in their veins, an' that we try to follow their Example by givin' a tone to the community ever sense we came from the city. He knows what we are a-tryin' to do, an' yit he'll serve us in this mean fashion."

"I wonder where he got the spondulicks," broke in her son Richard.

"Richard, Richard! you must not use sech a word as that," and Mrs. Farrington cast a reproving glance at her son. "Ye must hev heerd it from Tom Jones; ye know ye never hear it at home, fer we are allus very pertickeler about our language."

"Well, money, then, ma. I don't care what ye call it."

"Oh, I guess that'll not be hard to account fer," replied Farrington with a knowing laugh. "Tom Fletcher may be able to throw some light upon the subject. It seems to me that the parson has come to the end of his rope. We've borne with 'im fer years, an' it's about time he was makin' a move. He's too old fer the ministry. We need a young man, with fire an' vim. Anyway, the rest may do as they please, but as fer me not another cent do I pay as long as he is in charge."

"Ye've allus paid well, Si," remarked his wife, "an' the parson is not one bit grateful."

"Yes, I reckon I hev," and Farrington gulped down, his tea. "I used to contribute heavily; eight dollars a year, an' a bag of oats at Christmas. Now I give only four sense I've enlarged my bizness an' can't afford so much. Besides, the parson doesn't deal with me as much as he should. He gits too many of his supplies in the city. If he expects me to paternise 'im he must deal with me. I've told 'im so very plainly on several occasions."

"Ye certainly did yer part, Si," Mrs. Farrington replied. "If all in the parish 'ud do as well there'd be no trouble. It is disgraceful that these country people do not pay more to support the Church. It throws sich a burden upon us. Only think of Mrs. Jimmy Brown buyin' a new Bristles carpet, when the old one was quite good enough. An' her last year's hat could hev been made over as well as not. But, no, it would not do. She had to hev another, which cost quite a penny, so I understand."

"An' Vivien Nelson's fur-lined coat, ma," chimed in Eudora, "I know it didn't cost one cent less than seventy-five dollars!"

"These country people are so extravagant, ye know," returned her mother. "They are allus tryin' to imitate their sufferiors. To think of Vivien Nelson, a farmer's daughter, hevin' a fur-lined coat which cost almost as much as Eudora's! It is really disgraceful! I'm sure her father could give more to the Church than he does, an' yit he'll let us hear the brunt of the burden."

"Guess he'll hev to bear mor'n ever now," replied her husband as he rose from the table. "I'm done with the whole bizness, an' I'm mighty glad I heven't paid fer the last year, an' don't intend to now."

As Farrington passed out of the dining-room into the store, his clerk, a young man new to the business, was serving a middle-aged woman at the counter.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Sturgis," the former was saying, "but we are entirely out of it just now. We can order it for you, though, and have it in a few days."

Farrington turned angrily upon his heel as these words fell upon his ears.

"What does she want?" he demanded.

"Number forty, white thread; but we're out of it."

"You stupid blockhead, we're not out of it! We're never out! If you'd use yer eyes half as much as yer tongue ye'd be all right."

"But I can't find it. I've looked everywhere," and the clerk's eyes flashed danger as he turned them upon his master.

"Well, look again. Don't stand thar starin' like an ijut!"

The young man did as he was commanded. He searched and rummaged, but all in vain.

"Oh, come out of that, an' let me thar," and Farrington shoved his way past the clerk, and fumbled excitedly in the box.

"Ah-yes-no-fifty-sixty-Well, I declare! Not thar! Confound it! Why didn't ye tell me we were out before? Why did ye wait till the last spool was gone afore sayin' a word about it?"

"I've only been here a week," replied the clerk, "and how could I know you were out. No one has called for number forty thread since I've been here."

Farrington was beaten, and was forced to swallow his anger as best he could. It was most aggravating to be thus humiliated in the presence of this woman. He strode across the room, and stood with his back to the stove, wondering how he could get even with his clerk. He would discharge him. "No, that wouldn't do. It was hard to get a man to stay with him, and this was a good worker. Anyway, he must be taught his place, and not answer back. He would let him know that he owned the store.

"Give me my mail, please."

Farrington started, and turning, beheld a little lad standing by his side.

"Mail! whose mail?" he demanded, glad of an excuse to give vent to his anger. "What's yer name? I don't know anything about my mail."

"I want Parson John's mail," persisted the boy. "Don't you know him?"

"Know 'im! Well, I guess! I know 'im too d--n well. But who are you, and what do ye want with the parson's mail?"

"Oh, I live with him now. I'm Dan, old Jim's boy. Didn't you know I was there?"

"Ha, ha, that's a good one! To think that I should know every brat who comes to the place."

"I'm not a brat! I'm almost a man," and Dan straightened himself up. "Give me my mail, please; Parson John's waiting for it."

"Let 'im wait. I'm not supposed to give out mail to all the riff-raff who comes fer it. Why doesn't he come 'imself?"

"He's busy."

"Busy! busy! Yes, I s'pose he is busy, plannin' mischief; wonderin' what to do with Billy Fletcher's gold. How much did he git? I s'pose he gave you some to hold yer tongue."

Farrington had no intention of uttering these last words, but his heart was so full of anger that he hardly knew what he was saying.

Dan's eyes flashed, and his little hands suddenly doubled at his side. He did not comprehend the meaning of these words, but he felt that his friend, the white-headed old man, was being insulted. With him to think was to act, and many a boy larger than himself had felt the lightning blows of those little tense knuckles.

"What do ye mean?" he demanded, looking up into Farrington's face.

"What do I mean? Well, if ye want to know, I mean that Parson John is a rogue, an' that you are nuthin' but a young sucker, an impudent outcast, spongin' fer yer livin' upon others."

Hardly had the words left Farrington's lips, when, with a cry as of a wild animal, Dan leaped full upon him, caught him by the hair with one hand, and with the other rained blow after blow upon his face.

With a howl of mingled pain and rage, Farrington endeavoured to free himself from this human wild-cat. He struggled and fought, and at length succeeded in tearing away that writhing, battering form. With one hand he held him at arm's length and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. Dan struggled, squirmed and bit, but all in vain; he was held as in a vice. Not satisfied with shaking the lad, Farrington reached over and, seizing a broken barrel stave from the wood-box, brought it down over the lad's shoulder and back with a resounding thud. A cry of pain, the first that he had uttered, fell from Dan's lips, and with a mighty effort he tried to escape. The stick was raised again. It was about to fall, when suddenly it flew into the air, the grip of the boy relaxed, and Farrington staggered back from a furious blow dealt him by the young clerk. Farrington tried to recover, but each time he was hurled to the floor by the stalwart athlete standing before him, his eyes blazing with anger.

"Get up, you coward!" he cried, when at length Farrington remained sprawling upon the floor. "Get up if you can, and dare!"

"Curse you!" snarled the defeated man. "Ye'll pay fer this!"

"We'll see about that later," calmly replied the clerk. "There's to be no more bullying while I'm here, and I won't be here long, for I'm done with you and your outfit."

"Go, go at once, d--n you, or I'll kick ye out!" shouted Farrington.

"Kick me out, if you can," came the reply. "Get up and do it," and the young man laughed scornfully. "No, you know you can't. Now, look here; just a word before we part. I've stood your insolent abuse for a week, without retaliating. But when you laid hands upon that boy it was a different matter."

"But he flew at me like a wild-cat," Farrington growled.

"Yes, and wouldn't anyone with a spark of life in him at all, after he had been insulted by such a thing as you. You like to get a chap such as that in your claws and torture him. You've done it before, I understand. But it's not been such fun this time. No, no, the worm has turned at last. I'm going now--so do what you like. I've no fear of such a thing as you."

He turned, put on his heavy coat and left the building. As he did so Dan slipped out ahead of him, and started up the road as fast as his little feet would carry him.