“Another thing,” he went on, “the’ ain’t no gamble like a hoss. You may think you know him through an’ through, an’ fust thing you know he’ll be cuttin’ up a lot o’ didos right out o’ nothin’. It stands to reason that sometimes you let a hoss go all on the square—as you know him—an’ the feller that gits him don’t know how to hitch him or treat him, an’ he acts like a diff’rent hoss, an’ the feller allows you swindled him. You see, hosses gits used to places an’ ways to a certain extent, an’ when they’re changed, why they’re apt to act diff’rent. Hosses don’t know but dreadful little, really. Talk about hoss sense—wa’al, the’ ain’t no such thing.”
Thus spoke David on the subject of his favorite pursuit and pastime, and John thought then that he could understand and condone some things he had seen and heard, at which at first he was inclined to look askance. But this matter of the Widow Cullom’s was a different thing, and as he realized that he was expected to play a part, though a small one, in it, his heart sank within him that he had so far cast his fortunes upon the good will of a man who could plan and carry out so heartless and cruel an undertaking as that which had been revealed to him that afternoon. He spent the evening in his room trying to read, but the widow’s affairs persistently thrust themselves upon his thoughts. All the unpleasant stories he had heard of David came to his mind, and he remembered with misgiving some things which at the time had seemed regular and right enough, but which took on a different color in the light in which he found himself recalling them. He debated with himself whether he should not decline to send Mrs. Cullom the notice as he had been instructed, and left it an open question when he went to bed.
He wakened somewhat earlier than usual to find that the thermometer had gone up, and the barometer down. The air was full of a steady downpour, half snow, half rain, about the most disheartening combination which the worst climate in the world—that of central New York—can furnish. He passed rather a busy day in the office in an atmosphere redolent of the unsavory odors raised by the proximity of wet boots and garments to the big cylinder stove outside the counter, a compound of stale smells from kitchen and stable.
After the bank closed he dispatched Peleg Hopkins, the office boy, with the note for Mrs. Cullom. He had abandoned his half-formed intention to revolt, but had made the note not only as little peremptory as was compatible with a clear intimation of its purport as he understood it, but had yielded to a natural impulse in beginning it with an expression of personal regret—a blunder which cost him no little chagrin in the outcome.
Peleg Hopkins grumbled audibly when he was requested to build the fires on Christmas day, and expressed his opinion that “if there warn’t Bible agin workin’ on Chris’mus, the’ ’d ort ter be”; but when John opened the door of the bank that morning he found the temperature in comfortable contrast to the outside air. The weather had changed again, and a blinding snowstorm, accompanied by a buffeting gale from the northwest, made it almost impossible to see a path and to keep it. In the central part of the town some tentative efforts had been made to open walks, but these were apparent only as slight and tortuous depressions in the depths of snow. In the outskirts, the unfortunate pedestrian had to wade to the knees.
As John went behind the counter his eye was at once caught by a small parcel lying on his desk, of white note paper, tied with a cotton string, which he found to be addressed, “Mr. John Lenox, Esq., Present,” and as he took it up it seemed heavy for its size.
Opening it, he found a tiny stocking, knit of white wool, to which was pinned a piece of paper with the legend, “A Merry Christmas from Aunt Polly.” Out of the stocking fell a packet fastened with a rubber strap. Inside were five ten-dollar gold pieces and a slip of paper on which was written, “A Merry Christmas from Your Friend David Harum.” For a moment John’s face burned, and there was a curious smarting of the eyelids as he held the little stocking and its contents in his hand. Surely the hand that had written “Your Friend” on that scrap of paper could not be the hand of an oppressor of widows and orphans. “This,”
