Shavings Part 11

Course if 'twas anybody but you, Jed Winslow, you'd live in it yourself instead of campin' out in this shack here."

Jed sat down on the box he had just nailed and, taking one long leg between his big hands, pulled its knee up until he could have rested his chin upon it without much inconvenience.

"I know, Sam," he drawled gravely, "but that's the trouble--I ain't been anybody but me for forty-five years."

The captain smiled, in spite of his impatience. "And you won't be anybody else for the next forty-five," he said, "I know that. But all the same, bein' a practical, more or less sane man myself, it makes me nervous to see a nice, attractive, comfortable little house standin' idle while the feller that owns it eats and sleeps in a two-by-four sawmill, so to speak. And, not only that, but won't let anybody else live in the house, either. I call that a dog in the manger business, and crazy besides."

The big foot at the end of the long leg swung slowly back and forth. Mr. Winslow looked absently at the roof.

"DON'T look like that!" snapped Captain Sam. "Come out of it!

Wake up! It always gives me the fidgets to see you settin' gapin'

at nothin'. What are you daydreamin' about now, eh?"

Jed turned and gazed over his spectacles.

"I was thinkin'," he observed, "that most likely that dog himself was crazy. If he wasn't he wouldn't have got into the manger. I never saw a dog that wanted to climb into a manger, did you, Sam?"

"Oh, confound the manger and the dog, too! Look here, Jed; if I found you a good tenant would you rent 'em that house of yours?"

Jed looked more troubled than ever.

"Sam," he began, "you know I'd do 'most anything to oblige you, but--"

"Oblige me! This ain't to oblige me. It's to oblige you."

"Oh, then I won't do it."

"Well, then, 'tis to oblige me. It'll oblige me to have you show some sense. Come on, Jed. These people I've got in mind are nice people. They want to find a little house and they've come to me at the bank for advice about findin' it. It's a chance for you, a real chance."

Jed rocked back and forth. He looked genuinely worried.

"Who are they?" he asked, after a moment

"Can't name any names yet."

Another period of reflection. Then: "City folks or Orham folks?"

inquired Mr. Winslow.

"City folks."

Some of the worried look disappeared. Jed was plainly relieved and more hopeful.

"Oh, then they won't want it," he declared. "City folks want to hire houses in the spring, not along as late in the summer as this."

"These people do. They're thinkin' of livin' here in Orham all the year round. It's a first-rate chance for you, Jed. Course, I know you don't really need the money, perhaps, but--well, to be real honest, I want these folks to stay in Orham--they're the kind of folks the town needs--and I want 'em contented. I think they would be contented in your house. You let those Davidsons from Chicago have the place that summer, but you've never let anybody so much as consider it since. What's the real reason? You've told me as much as a dozen, but I'll bet anything you've never told me the real one. 'Twas somethin' the Davidsons did you didn't like--but what?"

Jed's rocking back and forth on the box became almost energetic and his troubled expression more than ever apparent.

"Now--now, Sam," he begged, "I've told you all about that ever and ever so many times. There wasn't anything, really."

"There was, too. What was it?"

Jed suffered in silence for two or three minutes.

"What was the real reason? Out with it," persisted Captain Hunniwell.

"Well--well, 'twas--'twas--" desperately, "'twas the squeakin' and-- and squealin'."

"Squeakin' and squealin'? Gracious king! What are you talkin'

about?"

"Why--the--the mills, you know. The mills and vanes outside on--on the posts and the fence. They squeaked and--and sometimes they squealed awful. And he didn't like it."

"Who didn't?"

"Colonel Davidson. He said they'd got to stop makin' that noise and I said I'd oil 'em every day. And--and I forgot it."

"Yes--well, I ain't surprised to death, exactly. What then?"

"Well--well, you see, they were squealin' worse than usual one mornin' and Colonel Davidson he came in here and--and I remembered I hadn't oiled 'em for three days. And I--I said how horrible the squealin' was and that I'd oil 'em right away and--and--"

"Well, go on! go on!"

"And when I went out to do it there wasn't any wind and the mills wasn't goin' at all. You see, 'twas his oldest daughter takin' her singin' lessons in the house with the window open."

Captain Sam put back his head and shouted. Jed looked sadly at the floor. When the captain could speak he asked:

"And you mean to tell me that was the reason you wouldn't let the house again?"

"Er--why, yes."

"I know better. You didn't have any row with the Davidsons. You couldn't row with anybody, anyhow; and besides the Colonel himself told me they would have taken the house the very next summer but you wouldn't rent it to 'em. And you mean to say that yarn you've just spun was the reason?"

"Why--yes."

"Rubbis.h.!.+ You've told me a dozen reasons afore, but I'm bound to say this is the most foolish yet. All right, keep the real reason to yourself, then. But I tell you what I'm goin' to do to get even with you: I'm goin' to send these folks down to look at your house and I shan't tell you who they are or when they're comin'."

The knee slipped down from Mr. Winslow's grasp and his foot struck the floor with a crash. He made a frantic clutch at his friend's arm.

"Oh, now, Sam," he cried, in horror, "don't do that! Don't talk so! You don't mean it! Come here! . . . Sam!"

But the captain was at the door. "You bet I mean it!" he declared.

"Keep your weather eye peeled, Jed. They'll be comin' 'most any time now. And if you have ANY sense you'll let 'em the house. So long!"

He drove away in his little car. Jed Winslow, left standing in the shop doorway, staring after him, groaned in anxious foreboding.

He groaned a good many times during the next few hours. Each time the bell rang announcing the arrival of a visitor he rose to answer it perfectly sure that here were the would-be tenants whom his friend, in the mistaken kindness of his heart, was sending to him.

Not that he had the slightest idea of renting his old home, but he dreaded the ordeal of refusing. In fact he was not sure that he could refuse, not sure that he could invent a believable excuse for doing so. Another person would not have sought excuses, would have declared simply that the property was not for rent, but Jed Winslow was not that other person; he was himself, and ordinary methods of procedure were not his.