“Wa’al,” he went on, “we done the hull programmy—gingerbread, lemonade—pink lemonade, an’ he took some o’ that—popcorn, peanuts, pep’mint candy, cin’mun candy—scat my ⸻! an’ he payin’ fer ev’rythin’—I thought he was jest made o’ money! An’ I remember how we talked about all the doin’s; the ridin’, an’ jumpin’, an’ summersettin’, an’ all—fer he’d got all the shyniss out of me for the time—an’ once I looked up at him, an’ he looked down at me with that curious look in his eyes an’ put his hand on my shoulder. Wa’al, now, I tell ye, I had a queer, crinkly feelin’ go up an’ down my back, an’ I like to up an’ cried.”
“Dave,” said the widow, “I kin see you two as if you was settin’ there front of me. He was alwus like that. Oh, my! Oh, my! David,” she added solemnly, while two tears rolled slowly down her wrinkled face, “we lived together, husban’ an’ wife, fer seven year, an’ he never give me a cross word.”
“I don’t doubt it a mossel,” said David simply, leaning over and poking the fire, which operation kept his face out of her sight and was prolonged rather unduly. Finally he straightened up and, blowing his nose as it were a trumpet, said:
“Wa’al, the cirkis fin’ly come to an end, an’ the crowd hustled to git out ’s if they was afraid the tent ’d come down on ’em. I got kind o’ mixed up in ’em, an’ somebody tried to git my tin pail, or I thought he did, an’ the upshot was that I lost sight o’ Billy P., an’ couldn’t make out to ketch a glimpse of him nowhere. An’ then I kind o’ come down to earth, kerchug! It was five o’clock, an’ I had better ’n four mile to walk—mostly up hill—an’ if I knowed anything ’bout the old man, an’ I thought I did, I had the all-firedist lickin’ ahead of me ’t I’d ever got, an’ that was sayin’ a good deal. But, boy ’s I was, I had grit enough to allow ’twas wuth it, an’ off I put.”
“Did he lick ye much?” inqured Mrs. Cullom anxiously.
“Wa’al,” replied David, “he done his best. He was layin’ fer me when I struck the front gate—I knowed it wa’n’t no use to try the back door, an’ he took me by the ear—most pulled it off—an’ marched me off to the barn shed without a word. I never see him so mad. Seemed like he couldn’t speak fer a while, but fin’ly he says, ‘Where you ben all day?’
“ ‘Down t’ the village,’ I says.
“ ‘What you ben up to down there?’ he says.
“ ‘Went to the cirkis,’ I says, thinkin’ I might ’s well make a clean breast on’t.
“ ‘Where ’d you git the money?’ he says.
“ ‘Mr. Cullom took me,’ I says.
“ ‘You lie,’ he says. ‘You stole the money somewheres, an’ I’ll trounce it out of ye, if I kill ye,’ he says.
“Wa’al,” said David, twisting his shoulders in recollection, “I won’t harrer up your feelin’s. ’S I told you, he done his best. I was willin’ to quit long ’fore he was. Fact was, he overdone it a little, an’ he had to throw water in my face ’fore he got through; an’ he done that as thorough as the other thing. I was somethin’ like a chickin jest out o’ the cistern. I crawled off to bed the best I could, but I didn’t lay on my back fer a good spell, I c’n tell ye.”
“You poor little critter,” exclaimed Mrs. Cullom sympathetically. “You poor little critter!”
“ ’Twas more’n wuth it, Mis’ Cullom,” said David emphatically. “I’d had the most enjoy’ble day, I might say the only enjoy’ble day, ’t I’d ever had in my hull life, an’ I hain’t never fergot it. I got over the lickin’ in course of time, but I’ve ben enjoyin’ that cirkis fer forty year. The’ wa’n’t but one thing to hender, an’ that’s this, that I hain’t never ben able to remember—an’ to this day I lay awake nights tryin’ to—that I said ‘Thank ye’ to Billy P., an’ I never seen him after that day.”
“How’s that?” asked Mrs. Cullom.
“Wa’al,” was the reply, “that day was the turnin’ point with me. The next night I lit out with what duds I c’d git together, an’ as much grub ’s I could pack in that tin pail; an’ the next time I see the old house on Buxton Hill the’ hadn’t ben no Harums in it fer years.”
Here David rose from his chair, yawned and stretched himself, and stood with his back to the fire. The widow looked up anxiously into his face. “Is that all?” she asked after a while.
“Wa’al, it is an’ it ain’t. I’ve got through yarnin’ about Dave Harum at any rate, an’ mebbe we’d better have a little confab on your matters, seein’ ’t I’ve got you ’way up here such a mornin’ ’s this. I gen’ally do bus’nis fust an’ talkin’ afterward,” he added, “but I kind o’ got to goin’ an’ kept on this time.”
He put his hand into the breast pocket of his coat and took out three papers, which he shuffled in review as if to verify their identity, and then held them in one hand, tapping them softly upon the palm of the other, as if at a loss how to begin. The widow sat with her eyes fastened upon the papers, trembling with nervous apprehension. Presently he broke the silence.
“About this here morgidge o’ your’n,” he said, “I sent ye word that I wanted to close the matter up, an’ seein’ ’t you’re here an’ come fer that purpose, I guess we’d better make a job on’t. The’ ain’t no time like the present, as the sayin’ is.”
“I s’pose it’ll hev to be as you say,” said the widow in a shaking voice.
“Mis’ Cullom,” said David solemnly, “you know, an’
