Chapter XV

ONE SWALLOW DOES NOT MAKE A SUMMER.— TRIBULATIONS OF A FAT MAN.

"I SHALL ask him, as sure as he sets foot inside this cabin again." And aunt Esther's cheeks glowed.

"Do you suppose," said the dwarf, "that if he intends to jump our claim, he'd be fool enough to tell you beforehand?"

"I shall never believe that Mr. Simmons is tricky and dishonest," affirmed the charitable Mrs. Willard. "Why, I have been much instructed, and benefited,—I hope I have a right to say,—by his excellent sentiments. If I am not deceived, he's a truly godly person. And I still think that he sent that breaking team here as a generous kindness to us. It was a surprise—he's so delicate about intruding himself. You are unreasonable towards him, Esther, while he worships the ground you tread on; and he is doing these kindnesses in order to overcome your prejudice, and get you to look with more favor on his suit."

Aunt Esther grew pale with anger, but kept her firmly-set mouth closed.

"And 'you,' Frankie, are much to blame for your aunt's coolness. You'd be suspicious of an angel; and you talked so hard against Mr. Simmons, that she has drank into your spirit. It is ungrateful, after all he's done to help us. I'm sure we 'need' help out here on the prairie."

"Well, you'll find out," hotly piped the Hunchback, "after he's got our splendid claim! But, mother," he added, after a moment's pause, "it isn't best for me, or aunt Esther, or any of us, to let him know we suspect him, for that would put him on his guard. And if he 'does' wish for the land, he would hurry and preëmpt it. We must treat him well, but 'watch'—'watch'—keeping our eyes open when he supposes they are shut."

"That's it, Frankie," joined in aunt Esther; "we must conceal our suspicions, and unravel his schemes, if we can. But there he is, now!"

And flustered Mrs. Willard became over-busy in her housework, and self-poised aunt Esther returned to her sewing.

"How do you all do?" he inquired, in an accent of sincere interest, and not in the careless tone of a commonplace.

"Quite well, I thank you," responded Mrs. Willard, intent on her baking.

"Pleased to hear it. By the way, did some men call here to do a little breaking?"

"Yes," she answered, ceasing to mould the dough, and, regarding him with transparent anxiety, instantly added, "they said 'you' sent them."

"Happy to learn that they were so prompt. You see, by turning over the sod that it may lay exposed to the weather and the frost, it will be nicely rotted by spring. Fortunately, I ran across that team while I was away; and as it is almost impossible to hire one for love or money,—especially for a small job,—there is so much prairie to be broken up. I persuaded the fellows to put in their plough for a little strip—only three acres. The boys will want a garden next season."

Good Mrs. Willard's expressive countenance displayed the pleasure she felt at his vindication of himself; and to help him out, she said, notwithstanding the dwarf's admonitory frown,—

"The boys thought it strange you told those men that this claim is yours."

"So I did," he explained, lightly laughing. "You'll set that down as a fib, I'm afraid, and mark me out of your books. But they were full of work, and I was obliged to make out a strong plea to get them here at all, and of course I had to become personally responsible for the contract. Men don't care to do business with women, and these chaps knew nothing about Mrs. Willard and sister,—estimable ladies as they are, and abundantly able to pay."

"How much is their bill?" tartly inquired aunt Esther, taking out her purse.

"A mere trifle," replied Mr. Simmons "only twelve dollars. Another time will answer just as well. Ferdie and Willie, I wish to show you about the breaking."

"There," said he, as they reached the three acres, "this spot lies low, and I chose it partly because, being moist, it will stand a drought, should there be one next summer. It's no harm to be sure of 'one' crop, at least. This will be your garden. You will have to fence it, to shut out stray cattle. And, by the by, I might spend a day or two helping in this, better than not, just now. Suppose we go at it this afternoon."

"Agreed!" cried the lads, as enthusiastic now as condemnatory before.

"If, now, Frankie was as smart and bright as his brothers," continued the bachelor, "it wouldn't take us long to get out the rails and lay them up. Pity he's so helpless and odd."

"I guess dinner is about ready," said Ferdie; "Georgie, you run and see."

The lad quickly reappeared to call them. And as the little family surrounded the rude table, Mrs. Willard hesitatingly said,—

"Mr. Simmons, perhaps you would say grace before we eat."

"If you desire, ma'am," he replied, and repeated a brief form of petition and thanksgiving, which so mellowed Mrs. Willard's sensitive heart that she fairly loaded her guest's plate with the choicest of the food, and was concerned that his vigorous "appetite was so poor."

Their guest ate rapidly, and precipitately rising, excused himself, saying,—

"Boys, I'll get things ready, and when you are through eating, we'll go to work."

Mrs. Willard looked from the window after him till assured he was out of hearing, then gesticulating impressively with a fork, she said,—

"Now, Frankie and Esther, I trust you are satisfied. You have doubted and slandered a pious and true man."

"Frankie," she interrupted herself to scream, "come back and finish your dinner!"

But the dwarf disappeared behind a corner of the log stable.

"MR. SWALLER!"

That fat worthy was venturing very carefully to "work his passage" from the immigrant wagon to "terra firma." And at the inopportune instant when the shrew's shrill and imperative summons pierced his ear, was mentally and physically contriving how to descend safely with a strapping girl of five under one arm, and elsewise, a nurse bottle, a basket of eggs, a flask of wine, a bandbox containing his wife's bonnet, and last, but not least, himself.

"'Mr. Swaller!'"

The rotund and encumbered gentleman alluded to was peculiarly situated. The horses were uneasy, the flies pertinacious, the ponderous wagon starting, just as he essayed, with one foot on the wheel, to make land. There was an awful and untimely lurch of the vehicle. The eggs slid in succession "to smash," and, stooping to catch them, his unwieldy legs became entangled, and, by a remarkable feat, considering his weight, he found himself on the ground, bandbox beneath him, child sitting on his nose, and milk running into his eyes.

The spectators to this extremely unique and striking "tableau" were the Willard household, and—Mrs. Swallow.

The flustered and perspiring "Mr." Swallow gathered together his lower extremities, sat up, and gazed around, as well as cherub and milk would permit. The former, its unusually large mouth stretched miraculously, yelled "particular murder."

"Mr. 'Swaller!' When 'are' you going to bring that poor lamb into the cabin? There! You've stuck your thumb in its eye—put it out, of course, and no doctor to run for. On my Paris hat, too. I shall be a fright now. After all the pains I've taken to bring it all the way from the east, that's what I get for it. Don't put your foot into the rest of the eggs. You know I can't 'exist' without egg and wine. Broke the bottle, eh! Here, darling,—" to the child,—"come to me. What would you do if your poor sick mother was to die? Who'd care for you then, darling? To think that the 'last' born of my 'first' husband should be 'pitched' out of a wagon at the risk of its innocent life! There, 'h-u-s-h,' sweet. Here's some more candy for you."

And the stout, elderly lady tightly clasped the sugar-sucking angel, alternately lavishing kisses on its bedaubed mouth, and darting sharp sentences at her unfortunate "lord."

"Mr. Swaller, I 'can't' go immigrating any more, and I 'won't.' Came to save my life? So you did. But I'd rather 'die' east than 'live' west. 'Creeping' along, like a sick snail, in a nasty emigrant wagon! Jolt, jolt; rumble, rumble; drag, drag. You're welcome to cure my lungs, but you 'shan't' do it on the prairies! Nothing but grass, grass, 'everlasting' grass, as if we were hosses, and not folks. I'm no better, and you can see it if you're a mind to."

Mr. Swallow listened to this sententious but rapidly-delivered harangue with a meekness and long-suffering worthy of commendation. It was evident he realized his position and responsibilities as a "'family' man." And though it was plain he was not indifferent to the speeches of his "better half," he bore the inflictions as if he comprehended that such was his duty. He was used, but not wholly hardened, to it.

Mrs. Swallow, as she has already informed us, was an invalid—a martyr to real, or fancied, pulmonary difficulties. And the doctors, having long been harassed with her "complaints," and exhausted the Materia Medica in endeavoring to effect a cure, had rid themselves of their patient by recommending a change of climate. And Mr. Swallow, in accordance with medical suggestions and his wife's appeals, was journeying with her in Prairie-land.

Recovering from his mishap, the dutiful husband hurried at once to load his arms with domestic goods, and to soothe the partner of his joys. When, as overburdened and panting he approached the cabin door where sat his afflicted spouse, "darling" suddenly sprang from her mother's embrace, and laying hold of his coat-tail, violently jerked upon it, spitefully kicking his shins the while with her patent copper toes.

"Mr. Swaller, see how you've hurt that poor lamb's feelings—that's why she acts so. And no wonder—'pitching' her out of the wagon at the risk of breaking her innocent neck. Darling, come to your mother."

But darling pulled the more desperately at the coat, Mr. Swallow straining to press ahead, when, lo, the garment parted, and "darling" was precipitated backward upon the ground, and Mr. Swallow forward into the cabin, a storm of toilet utensils, wearing apparel, food, a dish of molasses, and an umbrella and parasol, showering upon his loving helpmeet.

"You've done it now, Mr. Swaller! Do you think my head is made of iron, that a stone pot won't crack it? I do believe you'll be the death of me, and 'that child,' yet. What would my 'first' husband say, if he knew how his 'last' born was treated! But I shan't and I won't go emigrating an inch further, lungs or no lungs. I'll die in a 'galloping' consumption before I'll 'creep' all over the earth in a frightful emigrant wagon. There are snakes here, too. You needn't tell me there ain't. 'You' saw one; and 'I' saw one. A nasty big 'rattlesnake.' What if he'd stung that child with his horrid-sounding rattles.

"Ma'am," addressing Mrs. Willard, "'can't' we stay here to-night? Yes, we can," answering her own question; "and to-morrer them hosses will turn tail about, and we'll jolt, jolt, creep, creep, drag, drag, back to the east—lungs or no lungs. They said 'twas a 'climate' here. Climate! It's blowed like a harricane for more'n a week. And it's thundered for a whole hour; and it'll keep on thundering for a month without stopping to breathe, for what I know. 'Climate!'"

Mr. Swallow, assisted by Ferdie and Willie, unharnessed and put up his span in the little stable, Ferdie hitching one of his outside, Mr. Simmons being, for a wonder, away.

"O, you've put up the horses—have you, Mr. Swaller? Well, I hope you've 'locked' them up, too. To think, such a valuable horse as you lost, all through your own carelessness, Mr. Swaller. Nothing else—don't tell me. That beast was stole 'right under' your 'nose,' and likely's not these will be. Then where shall we be. Have to trot around on foot. Pretty figure you'd cut—wouldn't you? Setting out to walk east, heavy as you are."

The Willards welcomed the arrival of bed-time, in the hope that sleep would fetter the tongue of the 'twit'tering Swallow. She retired early, occupying Mrs. Willard's bed in the room below, while the Willards disposed themselves as best they could in the attic.

But Mrs. Willard was startled from a refreshing nap by a distressed cry from the apartment beneath.

"Mr. Swaller!" faintly.

"'Mr. Swaller!'" louder.

"MR. SWALLER!" angrily. Then desperately, "Mrs. Log-cabin-woman! 'Mrs. Log-cabin-woman!'"

Mrs. Willard thrust her head through the opening in the attic floor, at the ladder-way, and asked,—

"What's wanted?"

"Mrs. Log-cabin-woman, won't you 'wake' up Mr. Swaller. I'm sick!"

Mrs. Willard was amused and vexed. Comfortably in her hostess's bed lay the vixen visitress and offspring, while stretched on the trunk-table was the obese husband in shirt and pants, his head topped off with a yellow handkerchief, his abortive endeavors at snoring—consisting of a snort and a puff—attesting how happily oblivious he was to the agonies of his Eve.

"Madam," said Mrs. Willard, "your husband must be very much fatigued; hadn't you better let him rest?"

"Rest, when my head aches as if 'twould split? Wake him up, I say. I shall die if I don't have some ice-cold water to bathe it in."

"If you would be quiet, perhaps the ache would cease," mildly suggested Mrs. Willard.

"My poor lungs are so pressed—and he a trying to snore! And I so weak!—Mr. Swaller?" tenderly and inquiringly. "You 'won't' wake up, 'hey?' We'll see, then," she vociferated, bounding to his side and smartly shaking him.

"Wh-what's to pay?" he stuttered.

"Pay? Its 'spring water' to pay, Mr. Swaller. There's the pail. Quick! I'm most gone!" and she retreated, gasping, to her couch.

The model husband repaired to the spring, and, returning, bathed her forehead, till, tired of that service, she bade him stop, saying,—

"But you're not going to lie down again, Mr. Swaller; not a bit of it, after neglecting me so brutally. You shall 'watch' by me, and if I survive this horrible night, you shall take me east in the morning. Live among these western savages? That woman wouldn't lift her littlest finger to rouse you, though I was most dead—and you a snoring there! No; you 'can't' snore like a man; you're too fat. It's puff, snort; puff, snort; and that horrid 'western' female standing, sniggering, viewing the scene!"

"Mr. Swaller," patiently preserved the perpendicular till daybreak, his wife in timely interpositions saluting his drooping lids with,—

"Not going to sleep—are you? You won't puff, snort, when I'm sick."

As the swallows were migrating next day, Frankie, addressing the man, said,—

"Didn't your wife say you had a horse stolen from you?"

"She did."

"What sort of a looking beast was it?"

"A splendid large black horse, with a white spot in the forehead, and the scar of a flesh wound inside of the left hind leg, on the ham. I shall get posters printed describing the beast, and offering a liberal reward for its recovery."