The Golden Pears/Chapter 8
VIII
Andrest watched old Chnchell depart, wondering what next. There was a good deal of satisfaction in the river youth's heart, The old planter was afraid of him! That could mean only one thing—Sue Belle had in some way given her father to understand that she liked the man who lived in a shanty-boat and trapped and fished for a living.
On the following morning he set forth with his little golden pears packed in a double nest of cotton in a tin casket which had once served to hold six ounces of longcut. He felt a new fire in his heart and a new intelligence in his head.
As he had expected, he met Sue Belle on the brake trace. She hailed him with-a laugh of delight. Lunmer Andrest was always good fun. He knew the birds and squirrels, and he showed her how to use a twenty-two-caliber rifle. He had taught her the mysteries of an automatic pistol, so that she could shoot it as well as a man.
To-day she found him distraught and hesitant. They walked down the trace together. Sue Belle's mule stalking after. She pointed at the little dicky-birds in the trees, and he stared at them absently or seemed unable to see them. They flushed a flock of black ducks in the green bayou, and he missed several shots at them, though sometimes he was able to bring a duck down on the wing with his twenty-two. He even missed a big fox-squirrel.
"What ails you to-day?" she demanded with the freedom of an old playmate. "Seems like you can't shoot or talk. What's the matter?"
Lunmer tried to meet her searching gaze, but failed. His tongue was apparently beyond his control. He glanced nervously from side to side, unable to look her frankly in the eyes. As long as he was a humble river-rat, and no more, such rallyings had not disturbed him. Now he was nonplused, and his conscience, usually free and painless, troubled him so much that he was sure he had committed a grievous sin in daring to remember that her father had once been poor white trash like himself.
Again and again he put his hand into his coat-pocket and seized the tobacco-box, determined to hand it to her with bold mien. As often his heart failed him, as she diverted his attention to something in the treetops or back in the dark of the woods.
Then, when they had turned and were walking back toward the plantation, he managed to stop her; he managed to get his clutches on the little tin box; he managed to lift its monstrous dead weight out of his pocket, and he poked it into her hands with a gesture that seemed criminal in its awkwardness. He laughed, but it was not lightly; it was a harsh, cackling, uneasy laugh which surprised her.
Before looking into the box she looked into his eyes, and what she saw there in that brief instant startled her. She knew the meaning of that dumb, helpless, pleading look. The like had never before troubled her, but now she turned away quickly, and to cover her own sudden confusion she raised the hinged cover of the box and lifted the covering of boll-cotton.
There were the two golden pears! They were small, perfect, beautiful, and with an exultant cry she accepted them—and obeyed the impulse to reward him with a kiss for his gift. It was a free, quick kiss; but, quick and free as it was, it left them both confused and wondering.
To cover his embarrassment, Andrest told her where he had found the golden pears, and how he had shucked them out of a strange-shaped clam in the Deer Hoof River.
"They're beautiful!" she repeated over and over again. When he helped her mount her mule at the edge of the woods, she once more repeated the assertion with deep meaning, adding: "It's real good of you to let me have them, Lunmer—I sure do appreciate them!"
"They're not much!" He shook his head. "Just little clam-shell tricks. I got 'most a bushel of them, but not like those—not gold color. I never saw them like that before. They're just little tricks!"
"And I love them!" she exclaimed, kicking the mule's ribs with her spur.
As she rode away, she threw him another kiss. From that hour nothing but physical duress could have driven him from the Dark Bend swamps.
He returned to his boat, singing under his breath. His hopes were not impossible, his dreams were not beyond realization. Sue Belle had been glad to receive the pretty little tricks, in spite of their being found in common clam-shells. They were precious to her because Andrest had given them to her. She had declared that she loved them. With the sudden widening of his intelligence and perceptions, he thought that she might almost as well have said she loved him.
"I don't care what old Clinchell thinks now!" he told himself with all the rashness of an independent and courageous youth.
He did not underestimate the difficulties before him, however. He knew that it would take more than the tender regard of the girl to enable him to place himself in a position where he could feel that he was worthy of her. A new world had opened up to his vision because of his adventure in finance when he made his first deposit in the bank.
He had never dreamed of entering the realms of finance where bankers, planters, cotton-brokers, big sawmill men, land speculators, and people of that kind dwelt. It had never occurred to him to ask himself whether or not he could enter those realms. For years and years he had hidden away his surplus silver dollars—for now he knew that they were a surplus. He had found the word in the pamphlets that John Urgone had given him to read and ponder over.
The more he read and studied, the more surprised he became. Sitting now, with the impulse of Sue Belle's regard behind him, his mind drove swiftly to the heart of the subject. He kept the pamphlets open on the table, or folded in his pocket, ready for reference when he could not recall the exact wording of a sentence or paragraph or phrase.
"It is easier to make money than to invest it," he read, and he applied that to his own situation. "I've quite a lot of money, but I don't know what to do with it!"
His mind switched to the fact that "every man must conduct his own business affairs, whether he does it well or ill. If a man knows how to make the most of the wages that he earns, he is that much ahead in training for handling larger business."
The suggestion that he himself was in business surprised him. He tried to figure out the details of his business, comparing it with others of which he knew something. He likened his catching and selling fish to a planter growing, picking, and selling cotton. He compared the furs that he caught in winter to cutting logs; the sale of the furs was like selling logs to a mill.
He tried to write down on a piece of paper all the different processes of business in which he was engaged. He bought eggs from farmers, corn-meal and flour from the store, bacon and pork from settlers in the cut-overs. He discovered that he was doing a good deal of business with very little capital.
He was more and more impressed with the fact that when he slipped silver dollars into jugs buried in the ground he was saving a fortune—money that could be invested and made to earn more money. Nothing had ever been more startling to Lunmer Andrest than this discovery of the realms of finance. He lost sleep at night running over, in his imagination, problems of interest and income and investment in stocks, bonds, or mortgages. He had no clear idea of what stocks were, or how they differed from bonds or mortgages; but he knew that a stock or bond would earn money—five or six dollars a year for a hundred dollars invested.
What with his fishing, his courting, and his financial studies, Lunmer Andrest was a busy youth. He did not see Sue Belle the next day on account of his fishing, and on the day after that he went down to Deerport to talk to Urgone about the twenty-three hundred dollars that he had in the bank. The money was not yet at work, as he understood it, and he wanted to put it to work.
The cashier approved of the result of Andrest's mental processes. He took a personal interest in the sudden awakening of the young shanty-boater's mind to new and strange ideas. He was working out a little theory of his own, there in the Deerport bank, and this eager, attentive youth was just the kind of subject he wanted to work on and with. He insisted that Lunmer should go into the directors' office and sit down.
As soon as he was free he went in and talked to Andrest, putting questions that were direct and pointed.
"How much do you get for your fish?" he asked.
"They pay 'long about six cents a pound—sometimes more, sometimes less. Of course, that's now. By and by it 'll be ten; but take it in the overflow, they'll get so many they won't pay but three or four cents."
"It's a case of supply and demand, then? If there are lots of fish, they are cheap; if there aren't many, they bring good money?"
"Yes, sir."
"You catch a good many in a year?"
"Right smart—I've caught as much as sixty dollars' worth one week; and then again I haven't had enough to ship. They want fifty pounds, anyhow, unless it's game fish."
"Sixty dollars a week is good money. Spend most of it?"
"I don't know—oh, I get new boots, and maybe a shirt or pair of jeans. Nets cost right smart, too. A man spends a good deal, take it the year around."
"Then trapping—does that pay?"
"Sometimes; it helps fill in. Take it last winter, I sold one lot of coonskins for sixty-five dollars; and I had a few mink, rats, possums, and wildcats. I expect I caught three hundred dollars' worth in the winter."
"And how much fish?"
"Why, I don't know. I suppose I get about a thousand dollars a year."
"How long were you saving that eighteen hundred dollars?"
"Since I came back into the Dark Bend swamps."
"Two or three years?"
"No, sir; five—six come next spring."
"You didn't save any before you settled on the St. Francis?"
"No, sir," Andrest grinned. "I didn't make so much, and I spent more. You know, down on the Mississippi there's store boats and sody-water boats and dances. You don't have much left, the week-end or the month-end."
"How did you happen to begin to save in Dark Bend?"
"I couldn't eat it up and I couldn't wear it out, so I put it into the ground."
"Just by accident, then?"
"The silver got so heavy in my pockets, and wore them out so much, I just had to get shet of it."
Both laughed. Even Andrest, now, could see the humor of burying money in the ground to save the trouble of mending holes in his pockets.
Then Urgone turned to the question of investing the money.
"Of course," he said, "it would pay the bank more for the present if you would leave it on deposit, and we could give you certificates which would bring you four dollars a year for each hundred dollars; but I think you would do better by putting all or most of it into securities. You can buy railroad, industrial, or other stocks or bonds. I recommend you to look over some of these reports, which tell about the business of railroads, steel companies, and other enterprises."
Urgone took Andrest out to the hotel to dinner that noon, and kept him in the bank all afternoon, talking to him and questioning him. It was one of the hardest days Andrest had ever had, for he had to think, had to keep his mind alert in the presence of strange words and new ideas.
When at last he started back up the river, in the late afternoon, he was almost too tired to think, but he was full of a new happiness—the fact that he, a mere river shanty-boater, need not always be poor white trash.
"Any man has it in his power to better his station in life. What is more, it's a man's duty to better it," Urgone had told him.
In this the cashier revealed something of his own philosophy of life. He was doing his share in the world's work, that man Urgone! He knew as little as his young protégé knew about the future; but if he could have consulted a prophet, he would not have done less for Andrest because of any revelation of what was to come.
Andrest wanted to do something for Urgone, who was taking so much pains to make plain the principles and facts of finance—the primary things that offer so many stumbling-blocks to the untrained pupil. He could think of nothing that he could do, but he put back in his mind, for future use, his sense of gratitude to the man who was so willing to help him.
The day was so nearly done that the canoe traveled up the long stillwaters in the shadows, except where the river's course lay east and west. The craft cut the unwrinkled surface, with the green waters underneath, and on each side the reflection of the forest-clad banks. Squirrels sprang from branch to branch or scurried up the tree-trunks; birds chirruped; distant wild turkeys uttered their calls; mysterious sounds floated out of the wilderness of timber.
At long intervals he passed narrow clearings in the woods, where settlers were combating the wild, trying to make cotton-land in spite of the teeming growth of weeds and seedlings. The cane-rooting hogs in the clearings snorted and squealed at sight of the swift and silent canoe; but Andrest, to whom these things were all familiar, hardly noticed the present at all. His mind was busy with the wonderful future which seemed opening before him, toward which he had been blindly and unconsciously struggling when he tried to save his pockets from wear by burying silver dollars in the ground.
Darkness fell before he reached his cabin-boat. When he had cooked and eaten his supper, he went out on the stern deck to sit and look at the reflections of the stars in the water, and to conjure up the hopes and joys which a kindly future might shower upon him, if only he could get into his thick and stubborn head the things that would bring him success.
Suddenly, without warning, a voice shouted to him:
"Hey, you, white man! Hyar's a message for you!"
Something crashed on the bow deck, and an instant later he heard the visitor rustling away through the woods with light, almost noiseless, bare feet. The runner was soon out of hearing, and Andrest went to the bow to see what had been thrown down there.
He found a short, whittled club, with a string tied around the middle. To the string was fastened a folded slip of paper. When he spread the paper out by the light of a lamp, having cautiously drawn the curtains, he found written on it:
Dear Lun:
I wonder wouldn't you-all come to see me to-night, up by the Blue Bayou, at the trace, soon's you can? If I ain't there, wait for me till I come, or till day. You see, I want to talk to you right bad. Sue Belle.
"Sho!" Andrest exclaimed. "Course I will!"
He paused only to add his revolver holster to the automatic holster which he always wore now. He picked up his heavy rifle in starting out, and with a long stride he rapidly covered the distance to the river trace, up which he hurried to the Clinchell plantation. There he circled far out in the cotton-field to avoid passing the mansion and going anywhere near the quarters. He struck the trail near the far edge of the plantation, and a little later, out near the tap-line railroad, he stopped beside the Blue Bayou.
He sat down there, his low whistle having failed to elicit an answer. He sat for hours, but no one came near him. He heard no one, saw no one. Dawn arrived at last, finding him sleepy, much puzzled, and a little alarmed.
"‘If I ain't there, wait for me till I come, or till day,’" he repeated.
He waited till sunrise and then started for home again, feeling as if he had been made a fool of, and yet not certain about it. Sue Belle could have called him to the ends of the earth, and he begrudged no effort in her behalf. He was not sure that she had written the note; or, perhaps, she had written it just to plague him.
He met sawmill hands in the road, on their way to work. He again turned out of the trail to avoid going too near the mansion, but he could not help being seen by some of the pickers; and when he looked toward the Cupola on the mansion, where old Clinchell watched his plantation through binocular glasses, he saw some one sitting there.
He went back to his floating home and, after a breakfast which he did not much enjoy, turned in to sleep. He let his fish go that morning, but in the afternoon he pulled his nets, carried the catch to River Bridge, and shipped it on the night train to Mendova.
Then he rowed back to his shanty-boat, and lay awake a long time that evening, trying to think why Sue Belle should treat him so. Or, if it wasn't Sue Belle, who was it that dared to use her name? The letter was in fine, clear penmanship, just such handwriting as he thought Sue Belle would have, though he had never seen any of hers.
He slept uneasily that night, but at last went into a deep sleep, from which he was awakened long after sunrise by a loud shout from the bank. He hurried to the front door, and saw Clinchell, with an overseer and two negroes, all mounted on saddle-horses.
"Say, you!" Clinchell demanded. "Have you seen Sue Belle?"
"What?" Andrest gasped. "When?"
"Since night before yesterday. Have you seen her anywhere?"
"Not—not since Tuesday, sir."
"Where were you Wednesday?"
"Down to Mr. Urgone's bank in Deerport."
"Where were you yesterday?"
"Here, in the morning. I took fish to River Bridge yesterday evening."
"Where were you—you didn't fish yesterday morning?" the overseer demanded.
"No, sir—not till afternoon."
"Why not?"
"Why, I was pretty well tired—I slept all the morning."
"Where were you the night before?"
"Where was I the night before?" Andrest repeated blankly.
"Yes—where were you?"
"Why—why, I was coon-hunting around—what's the matter?"
"I'll tell you what's the matter," old Clinchell interrupted. "Sue Belle is turned up missing. We can't find her nowhere. She's gone! Ain't you seen her?"
"No, sir."
"We'd better drive down to Deerport and meet the sheriff!"
Clinchell turned to his little posse, and, with that, the four spurred their horses and drove at a gallop through the open woods.