Chapter XV: Up at Judy's

Robust as he was, Boyd Westover felt himself somewhat weary and footsore when he put one hand on the top rail of Judy Peters's gateless fence and sprang over it to greet his hostess.

She was waiting for him of course. She had caught sight of him far down the mountain, at one of the many turns of the road which were conveniently visible from her door or her other points of observation. It was not Judy's habit to be surprised by any arrival. She had had no warning of Westover's intended visit, but she was keen of vision, and had had no difficulty in recognizing the wayfarer four miles away, if measured by the tortuosities of the road, and perhaps a mile away as the crow flies.

That had been two or three hours before the time of his actual arrival, but Judy had not wondered at the delay. She knew Boyd's ways and she had made out that he had fishing tackle with him.

"Sapphiry," she had asked her daughter, "how many chickens has you got picked an' fixed in the spring house."

"Four," answered Sapphira. "Why, Mammy?"

"Never you mind why." Then relenting toward the girl's curiosity she said:

"Boyd Westover's a comin', an' he'll be mighty hungry fer supper. He's afoot an' it's more'n twenty mile from his place here. Besides that he's got four big branches to fish afore he gits here an' that'll take a heap o' walkin' to say nothin' o' the len'th o' the road. So you jes' go on with your ironin' till I tell you to set about gittin' supper."

"May be he won't fish the branches," suggested the girl.

"Yes, an' may be the moon'll rise in the west to-night an' run wrong way 'crost the firmament. It's the same sort of a may be, an' that sort never happens."

"What you reckon he's a comin' fer, Mammy?" asked Sapphira as she held up a stiffly starched garment to inspect her work.

"Dunno, an' it don't make no difference neither, as the feller says. Boyd Westover's father always found a welcome a waitin' at the fence when he come to Judy Peters's house, an' I's got the same sort o' welcome a holdin' out both han's for Boyd when he comes." Then by way of a more direct though conjectural answer to her daughter's question she added:

"Reckon he wants to git away from them stuckups down his way. I hear they's a been a botherin' of him o' late. Coffey, William, son to Jesse, was a tellin' me all about it."

The form "Coffey, William, son to Jesse," was one in familiar use in the mountains as a means of identifying one among a multitude of men bearing the same name. There were several families whose membership was so all pervasive of that region that some such method of identification on the polling lists and elsewhere was a necessity, and the polling list nomenclature had been very generally adopted into ordinary use.

"What was 't all 'bout, Mammy?"

"I dunno, only, whatever 'twas, another feller done it."

With that lucid explanation Judy set her flatiron on a trivet in front of the fire and went to one of her points of vantage to scan the road below. On her return she took Sapphira's flatiron from her hand, saying:

"I'll finish up the ironin'. They ain't but three or four pieces. You run over to the furdest 'tater patch an' gravel a pan o' potaters. Git a plenty of 'em, kase they's mighty good with fish."

To "gravel" potatoes is to dig into the "hill" in which the vines grow, from its side remove the larger potatoes from the rootlets, close up the opening and leave the vines to bring the remaining tubers to perfection. It is a process that yields new potatoes before their time and without destroying the growths. The potatoes secured in that way are very small, very unwholesome, but altogether delicious.

"May be he didn't git no fish," said Sapphira doubtingly.

"Well, you jes' look after the potater maybes. That's your job. The fish'll git here all right kase I seen him a cleanin' of 'em on the rocks down 'long Samson's branch. He won't fish no more this evenin' an' he'll be here in less 'n an hour. So mosey along an' git them potaters. Soon's I git through with this petticoat, I'll sif' some meal fer batter bread, git out a crock o' apple butter, an' cut up some tomatuses. Boyd Westover's hungry an' he's a goin' to have a good supper ef Judy Peters knows her business, an' she thinks she do."

When Boyd nimbly swung himself over the fence, all preliminary preparations for the evening meal were completely made, and Judy stood ready to welcome him. In his honor she had changed the limp, hot weather gown that had served her during her ironing, for a stiffly starched calico in the violently high colors of which her barbaric soul mightily rejoiced.

For greeting Judy said:

"You's come up to shake off the stuck-ups, Boyd, an' git among natural folks I s'pose. Anyhow you're welcome. Them's beauties," looking into Boyd's fish basket, "an' they's a flat-back an' two catfish among 'em. I'd ruther eat a catfish or a flat-back any time than a trout. Trout's sort o' stuck up fish, even ef they does live up here in the mountings. But I ain't forgot how to make trout good with the sauce your pappy learnt me how to make--sauce All on Days he called it,--an' I'll make you some fer supper."

Presumably Judy meant sauce Hollandaise. At any rate the sauce she served with the trout that night was a glorified example of the dressing that _chefs_ call by that name, improved by the gastronomic genius of the late Westover of Wanalah, and made by Judy Peters, whose instinct was infallible in the manufacture of things delectable to the palate.

Suddenly Judy observed something in Boyd Westover's face,--a look of utter weariness that she was sagacious enough to interpret aright, though she made no mention of her interpretation.

"He's got things on his mind," she reflected; "an' they's more tiresome like than all the trampin' a feller can do. His legs is good fer twice the walkin' he's done to-day. Never mind. We'll fix that up afore we're through."

Then turning to Westover she said:

"You is awful tired, Boyd, even ef you did clear the fence like a yearlin' colt. Now you's a goin' to rest. Never min' tellin' me nothin' 'bout what you're here for nor none o' the rest of it. You's a-goin' to have a nap. It'll be a hour or may be two hour afore supper's ready, 'cause I's got that sauce All on Days to make, an' it's a slow job. It's awful hot this evenin'"--Judy meant afternoon, but like the more aristocratic Virginians she called everything between noon and nightfall "evening" and everything after dusk "night," as in very fact it was.

"It's awful hot this evenin', but they's a good breeze a blowin' through the passage, an' they's a broad sofy there, three foot wide an' seven foot long, an' there you's a goin' to spen' the time twix this an' supper. They's pillers a plenty, an' you ain't got nothin' to do only to lay down an' git a good rest. Come on in."

Five minutes later Boyd Westover was comfortably asleep, with the assurance that there were no shams or false pretenses in the hospitality he was enjoying, and it was more than two hours later before Judy permitted him to be waked. She was accustomed to dominate everything in her own household, suppers included, and this particular supper she had "sot back" by a full hour in order that her guest might have his nap out. Even then she forbade a rude awakening. She simply parsed two or three times through the broad passageway between the two log houses that constituted her home, until the swish of her starched calico skirts awakened him "drop by drop like," as she explained to Sapphira and those of her long-legged sons who had "turned up" for supper in the maternal home. Those boys, Webster, Henry Clay, Andrew Jackson and Theonidas--heaven only knows where Judy got that name--were always uncertain quantities in the household. Each was a law unto himself. They came and went at their own free will, giving no account of themselves. Home was home to them. They appeared there, sure of a welcome, whenever it suited their convenience to do so. Sometimes all four would be there; sometimes not one of them would appear for months at a time. In either case no questions were asked and no accounts given. The boys were strong of limb, alert, industrious, independent. They made their own living by doing any sort of work that fell in their way, and they envied no man his lot or his possessions. They were types of a robust citizenship of which the Trusts and the Trades Unions--conspiracies both in restraint alike of trade and of liberty--have left us small trace in this modern world.

Their ages varied from thirteen to nineteen years; their height from five feet ten to six feet three; their muscularity and their sturdy self reliance not at all.