Maggie was moved from her private school in New York to one in Switzerland; she would come home for the holidays. Skip did stop smoking and drinking: when he decided to do something, he always did it immediately. There was work for him on the farm. He helped Andy to plant corn in the field behind the house; he bought two sheep to keep the grass short, and a pig, which soon gave birth to twelve more.
There was only one thing that annoyed him: his neighbor. Peter Frosby owned the land next to his, including the banks of the Coldstream and the right to catch fish in it. Skip wanted to be able to fish a little. He also wanted to feel that the part of the river which he could see from the house belonged to him. But when he offered to buy the fishing rights, he was told that Frosby refused to sell. Skip did not give up easily. The next week he telephoned Frosby, inviting him to his house for a drink. Frosby arrived in a new Cadillac, driven by a young man. He introduced the young man as his son, also called Peter. Frosby was a rather small, thin man with cold gray eyes.
“The Frosbys don’t sell their land,” he said. “We’ve had the same land for nearly three hundred years, and the river’s always been ours. I can’t understand why you want it.”
“I’d just like to do a little fishing in the summer,” said Skip. “And think you’ll agree that the price I offer isn’t bad — twenty thousand dollars for about two hundred meters of fishing rights. You won’t get such a good offer again in your lifetime.”
“I’m not interested in
The son was a good-looking boy with dark hair and strong shoulders, taller than his father. He sat there with his arms across his chest, and appeared to share his father’s negative attitude. Still, he smiled as they were leaving and said, “You’ve made this house look very nice, Mr. Skipperton.” Skip was pleased. He had tried hard to choose the most suitable furniture for the sitting room.
“I see you like old-fashioned things,” said Frosby. “That scarecrow in your field — we haven’t seen one of those around here for many years.”
“I’m trying to grow corn out there,” Skip said. “I think you need a scarecrow in a cornfield.”
Young Peter was looking at a photograph of Maggie, which stood on the hall table. “Pretty girl,” he said.
Skip said nothing. The meeting had failed. Skip wasn’t used to failing. He looked into Frosby’s cold gray eyes and said: “I’ve one more idea. I could rent the land by the river for the rest of my life, and then it goes to you — or your son. I’ll give you five thousand dollars a year.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Skipperton. Thank you for the drink, and — goodbye.”
“Stupid man,” said Skip to Andy as the Cadillac moved off. But he smiled. Life was a game, after all. You won sometimes, you lost sometimes.
It was early May. The corn which they had planted was beginning to come up through the earth. Skip and Andy had made a scarecrow from sticks joined together — one stick for the body and head, another for the arms, and two more for the legs. They had dressed it in an old coat and trousers that Andy had found, and had put an old hat of Skip’s on its head.
The weeks passed and the corn grew high. Skip tried to think of ways to annoy Frosby, to force him to rent part of the stream to him.
But he forgot about Frosby when Maggie came home for the summer holidays. Skip met her at the airport in New York, and they drove up to Maine. Skip thought she looked taller; she was certainly more beautiful!
“I’ve got a surprise for you at home,” Skip said.
“Oh — a horse, perhaps?”
Skip had forgotten she was learning to ride. “No, not a horse.” The surprise was a red Toyota. He had remembered, at least, that Maggie’s school had taught her to drive. She was very excited, and threw her arms round Skip’s neck. “You’re so sweet! And you’re looking
Skip and Maggie went for a drive in the new car the next morning. In the afternoon Maggie asked her father if she could go fishing in the stream. He had to tell her that she couldn’t, and he explained the reason.
“Well, never mind, there are a lot of other things to do.” Maggie enjoyed going for walks, reading, and doing little jobs in the house.
Skip was surprised one evening when Maggie arrived home in her Toyota carrying three fish. He was afraid she had been fishing in the stream, against his instructions.
“Where did you get those?”
“I met the boy who lives there. We were both buying petrol, and he introduced himself—he said he’d seen my photograph in your house. Then we had coffee together—”
“The Frosby boy?”
“Yes. He’s very nice. Perhaps it’s only the father who’s not nice. Well, Pete said, ‘Come and fish with me this afternoon,’ so I did.”
“I don’t — please, Maggie, I don’t want you to mix with the Frosbys.”
Maggie was surprised, but said nothing.
The next day, Maggie said she wanted to go to the village to buy some shoes. She was away for nearly three hours. With a great effort, Skip didn’t question her.
Then on Saturday morning, Maggie said there was a dance in the nearest town, and she was going.
“I can guess who you’re going with,” Skip said angrily.
“I’m going alone, I promise you. Girls don’t need a boy to take them to dances now.”
Skip realized that he couldn’t order her not to go to a dance. But he knew the Frosby boy would be there. And he knew what was going to happen. His daughter was falling in love with Pete Frosby.
Maggie got home very late that night, after Skip had gone to bed. At breakfast, she looked fresh and happy.
“I expect the Frosby boy was at the dance?” said Skip.
“I don’t know what you’ve got against him, Father.”
“I don’t want you to fall in love with an uneducated country boy. I sent you to a good school.”
“Pete had three years at Harvard University.” Maggie stood up. “I’m almost eighteen, Father. I don’t want to be told who I can and can’t see.”
Skip shouted at her: “They’re not our kind of people!”
Maggie left the room.
During the next week Skip was in a terrible state. In his business life he had always been able to force people to do what he wanted — but he couldn’t think of a way to do that with his daughter.
The following Saturday evening, Maggie said she was going to a party. It was at the house of a boy called Wilmers, who she had met at the dance. By Sunday morning, Maggie hadn’t come home. Skip telephoned the Wilmerses’ house.
A boy’s voice said that Maggie had left the party early.
“Was she alone?”
“No, she was with Pete Frosby. She left her car here.”
Skip felt the blood rush to his face. His hand was shaking as he picked up the telephone to call the Frosby house. Old Frosby answered. He said Maggie was not there. And his son was out at the moment.
“What do you mean? He was there and he went out?”
“Mr. Skipperton, my son has his own ways, his own room, his own key — his own life. I’m not going to —”
Skip put the telephone down.
Maggie was not home by Sunday evening or Monday morning. Skip didn’t want to inform the police. On Tuesday there was a letter from Maggie, written from Boston. It said that she and Pete had run away to be married.
…You may think this is sudden, but we do love each other, and we know what we’re doing. I didn’t really want to go back to school. Please don’t try to find me—you’ll hear from me next week. I was sorry to leave my nice new car.
Love always,
maggie
For two days Skip didn’t go out of the house, and he ate almost nothing. He felt three-quarters dead. Andy was very worried about him. When he needed to go to the village to buy some food, he asked Skip to go with him.
While Andy did the shopping, Skip sat in the car, looking at nothing. But then a figure coming down the street caught his eye. Old Frosby! He hoped Frosby wouldn’t see him in the car, but Frosby did. He didn’t pause, but he smiled his unpleasant little smile. Skip realized how much he hated Frosby. His blood boiled with anger, and he felt
