SI BRYANT'S place was
on the shore of the lake, and his garden- patch, shielded from the north by a
bold little promontory and a higher ridge inland, was accounted the most
successful and surprising in all Whilomville township. One afternoon Si was
working in the garden-patch, when Doctor Trescott's man, Peter Washington, came
trudging slowly along the road, observing nature. He scanned the white man's
fine agricultural results. "Take your eye off them there mellons, you
rascal," said Si, placidly.
The negro's face
widened in a grin of delight. "Well, Mist' Bryant, I raikon I ain't on'y
make m'se'f covertous er-lookin' at dem yere mellums, sure 'nough. Dey
suhtainly is grand."
"That's all
right," responded Si, with affected bitterness of spirit. "That's all
right. Just don't you admire 'em too much, that's all."
Peter chuckled and
chuckled. "Ma Lode! Mist' Bryant, y-y-you don' think I'm gwine come
prowlin' in dish yer gawden?"
"No, I know you
hain't," said Si, with solemnity. "B'cause, if you did, I'd shoot you
so full of holes you couldn't tell yourself from a sponge."
"Um--no, seh! No,
seh! I don' raikon you'll get chance at Pete, Mist' Bryant. No, seh. I'll take
an' run 'long an' rob er bank 'fore I'll come foolishin' 'round your gawden,
Mist' Bryant."
Bryant, gnarled and
strong as an old tree, leaned on his hoe, and laughed a Yankee laugh. His mouth
remained tightly closed, but the sinister lines which ran from the sides of his
nose to the meetings of his lips developed to form a comic oval, and he emitted
a series of grunts, while his eyes gleamed merrily and his shoulders shook.
Peter, on the contrary, threw back his head and guffawed thunderously. The
effete joke in regard to an American negro's fondness for watermelons was still
an admirable pleasantry to them, and this was not the first time they had
engaged in badinage over it. In fact, this venerable survival had formed
between them a friendship of casual road-side quality.
Afterward Peter went on
up the road. He continued to chuckle until he was far away. He was going to pay
a visit to old Alek Williams, a negro who lived with a large family in a hut
clinging to the side of a mountain. The scattered colony of negroes which
hovered near Whilomville was of interesting origin, being the result of some
contrabands who had drifted as far north as Whilomville during the great civil
war. The descendants of these adventurers were mainly conspicuous for their
bewildering number, and the facility which they possessed for adding even to this
number. Speaking, for example, of the Jacksons--one couldn't hurl a stone into
the hills about Whilomville without having it land on the roof of a hut full of
Jacksons. The town reaped little in labor from these curious suburbs. There
were a few men who came in regularly to work in gardens, to drive teams, to
care for horses, and there were a few women who came in to cook or to wash.
These latter had usually drunken husbands. In the main the colony loafed in
high spirits, and the industrious minority gained no direct honor from their
fellows, unless they spent their earnings on raiment, in which case they were
naturally treated with distinction. On the whole, the hardships of these people
were the wind, the rain, the snow, and any other physical difficulties which
they could cultivate. About twice a year the lady philanthropists of
Whilomville went up against them, and came away poorer in goods but rich in
complacence. After one of these attacks the colony would preserve a comic air
of rectitude for two days, and then relapse again to the genial
irresponsibility of a crew of monkeys.
Peter Washington was
one of the industrious class who occupied a position of distinction, for he
surely spent his money on personal decoration. On occasion he could dress better
than the Mayor of Whilomville himself, or at least in more colors, which was
the main thing to the minds of his admirers. His ideal had been the late
gallant Henry Johnson, whose conquests in Watermelon Alley, as well as in the
hill shanties, had proved him the equal if not the superior of any Pullman-car
porter in the country. Perhaps Peter had too much Virginia laziness and humor
in him to be a wholly adequate successor to the fastidious Henry Johnson, but,
at any rate, he admired his memory so attentively as to be openly termed a dude
by envious people.
On this afternoon he
was going to call on old Alek Williams because Alek's eldest girl was just
turned seventeen, and, to Peter's mind, was a triumph of beauty. He was not
wearing his best clothes, because on his last visit Alek's half-breed hound
Susie had taken occasion to forcefully extract a quite large and valuable part
of the visitor's trousers. When Peter arrived at the end of the rocky field
which contained old Alek's shanty he stooped and provided himself with several
large stones, weighing them carefully in his hand, and finally continuing his
journey with three stones of about eight ounces each. When he was near the
house, three gaunt hounds, Rover and Carlo and Susie, came sweeping down upon
him. His impression was that they were going to climb him as if he were a tree,
but at the critical moment they swerved and went growling and snapping around
him, their heads low, their eyes malignant. The afternoon caller waited until
Susie presented her side to him, then he heaved one of his eight-ounce rocks.
When it landed, her hollow ribs gave forth a drumlike sound, and she was
knocked sprawling, her legs in the air. The other hounds at once fled in
horror, and she followed as soon as she was able, yelping at the top of her
lungs. The afternoon caller resumed his march.
At the wild expressions
of Susie's anguish old Alek had flung open the door and come hastily into the
sunshine. "Yah, you Suse, come erlong outa dat now. What fer you-- Oh, how
do, how do, Mist' Wash'ton--how do?"
"How do, Mist'
Willums? I done foun' it necessa'y fer ter damnearkill dish yer dawg a yourn,
Mist' Willums."
"Come in, come in,
Mist' Wash'ton. Dawg no 'count, Mist' Wash'ton." Then he turned to address
the unfortunate animal. "Hu't, did it? Hu't? 'Pears like you gwine lun
some saince by time somebody brek yer back. 'Pears like I gwine club yer inter
er frazzle 'fore you fin' out some saince. Gw'on 'way f'm yah!"
As the old man and his
guest entered the shanty a body of black children spread out in crescent-shape
formation and observed Peter with awe. Fat old Mrs. Williams greeted him
turbulently, while the eldest girl, Mollie, lurked in a corner and giggled with
finished imbecility, gazing at the visitor with eyes that were shy and bold by
turns. She seemed at times absurdly over-confident, at times foolishly afraid;
but her giggle consistently endured. It was a giggle on which an irascible but
right-minded judge would have ordered her forthwith to be buried alive.
Amid a great deal of
hospitable gabbling, Peter was conducted to the best chair out of the three
that the house contained. Enthroned therein, he made himself charming in talk
to the old people, who beamed upon him joyously. As for Mollie, he affected to
be unaware of her existence. This may have been a method for entrapping the
sentimental interest of that young gazelle, or it may be that the giggle had
worked upon him.
He was absolutely
fascinating to the old people. They could talk like rotary snowploughs, and he
gave them every chance, while his face was illumined with appreciation. They
pressed him to stay to supper, and he consented, after a glance at the pot on
the stove which was too furtive to be noted.
During the meal old
Alek recounted the high state of Judge Oglethorpe's kitchen-garden, which Alek
said was due to his unremitting industry and fine intelligence. Alek was a
gardener, whenever impending starvation forced him to cease temporarily from
being a lily of the field.
"Mist' Bryant he
suhtainly got er grand gawden," observed Peter.
"Dat so, dat so,
Mist' Wash'ton," assented Alek. "He got fine gawden."
"Seems like I nev'
did see sech mellums, big as er bar'l, layin' dere. I don't raikon an'body in
dish yer county kin hol' it with Mist' Bryant when comes ter mellums."
"Dat so, Mist'
Wash'ton."
They did not talk of
watermelons until their heads held nothing else, as the phrase goes. But they
talked of watermelons until, when Peter started for home that night over a lonely
road, they held a certain dominant position in his mind. Alek had come with him
as far as the fence, in order to protect him from a possible attack by the
mongrels. There they had cheerfully parted, two honest men.
The night was dark, and
heavy with moisture. Peter found it uncomfortable to walk rapidly. He merely
loitered on the road. When opposite Si Bryant's place he paused and looked over
the fence into the garden. He imagined he could see the form of a huge melon
lying in dim stateliness not ten yards away. He looked at the Bryant house. Two
windows, downstairs, were lighted. The Bryants kept no dog, old Si's favorite
child having once been bitten by a dog, and having since died, within that
year, of pneumonia.
Peering over the fence,
Peter fancied that if any low-minded night-prowler should happen to note the
melon, he would not find it difficult to possess himself of it. This person
would merely wait until the lights were out in the house, and the people
presumably asleep. Then he would climb the fence, reach the melon in a few
strides, sever the stem with his ready knife, and in a trice be back in the
road with his prize. There need be no noise, and, after all, the house was some
distance.
Selecting a smooth bit
of turf, Peter took a seat by the road- side. From time to time he glanced at
the lighted windows.
When Peter and Alek had
said good-by, the old man turned back in the rocky field and shaped a slow
course toward that high dim light which marked the little window of his shanty.
It would be incorrect to say that Alek could think of nothing but watermelons.
But it was true that Si Bryant's watermelon-patch occupied a certain
conspicuous position in his thoughts.
He sighed; he almost
wished that he was again a conscienceless pickaninny, instead of being one of
the most ornate, solemn, and look-at-me-sinner deacons that ever graced the
handle of a collection-basket. At this time it made him quite sad to reflect
upon his granite integrity. A weaker man might perhaps bow his moral head to
the temptation, but for him such a fall was impossible. He was a prince of the
church, and if he had been nine princes of the church he could not have been
more proud. In fact, religion was to the old man a sort of personal dignity.
And he was on Sundays so obtrusively good that you could see his sanctity
through a door. He forced it on you until you would have felt its influence
even in a forecastle.
It was clear in his
mind that he must put watermelon thoughts from him, and after a moment he told
himself, with much ostentation, that he had done so. But it was cooler under
the sky than in the shanty, and as he was not sleepy, he decided to take a
stroll down to Si Bryant's place and look at the melons from a pinnacle of
spotless innocence. Reaching the road, he paused to listen. It would not do to
let Peter hear him, because that graceless rapscallion would probably
misunderstand him. But, assuring himself that Peter was well on his way, he set
out, walking briskly until he was within four hundred yards of Bryant's place.
Here he went to the side of the road, and walked thereafter on the damp,
yielding turf. He made no sound.
He did not go on to
that point in the main road which was directly opposite the watermelon-patch.
He did not wish to have his ascetic contemplation disturbed by some chance
wayfarer. He turned off along a short lane which led to Si Bryant's barn. Here
he reached a place where he could see, over the fence, the faint shapes of the
melons.
Alek was affected. The
house was some distance away, there was no dog, and doubtless the Bryants would
soon extinguish their lights and go to bed. Then some poor lost lamb of sin
might come and scale the fence, reach a melon in a moment, sever the stem with
his ready knife, and in a trice be back in the road with his prize. And this
poor lost lamb of sin might even be a bishop, but no one would ever know it.
Alek singled out with his eye a very large melon, and thought that the lamb
would prove his judgment if he took that one.
He found a soft place
in the grass, and arranged himself comfortably. He watched the lights in the
windows.
It seemed to Peter
Washington that the Bryants absolutely consulted their own wishes in regard to
the time for retiring; but at last he saw the lighted windows fade briskly from
left to right, and after a moment a window on the second floor blazed out
against the darkness. Si was going to bed. In five minutes this window abruptly
vanished, and all the world was night.
Peter spent the ensuing
quarter-hour in no mental debate. His mind was fixed. He was here, and the
melon was there. He would have it. But an idea of being caught appalled him. He
thought of his position. He was the bean of his community, honored right and
left. He pictured the consternation of his friends and the cheers of his
enemies if the hands of the redoubtable Si Bryant should grip him in his shame.
He arose, and going to
the fence, listened. No sound broke the stillness, save the rhythmical
incessant clicking of myriad insects, and the guttural chanting of the frogs in
the reeds at the lake-side. Moved by sudden decision, he climbed the fence and
crept silently and swiftly down upon the melon. His open knife was in his hand.
There was the melon, cool, fair to see, as pompous in its fatness as the cook
in a monastery.
Peter put out a hand to
steady it while he cut the stem. But at the instant he was aware that a black
form had dropped over the fence lining the lane in front of him and was coming
stealthily toward him. In a palsy of terror he dropped flat upon the ground,
not having strength enough to run away. The next moment he was looking into the
amazed and agonized face of old Alek Williams.
There was a moment of
loaded silence, and then Peter was overcome by a mad inspiration. He suddenly
dropped his knife and leaped upon Alek. "I got che!" he hissed.
"I got che! I got che!" The old man sank down as limp as rags.
"I got che! I got
che! Steal Mist' Bryant's mellums, hey?"
Alek, in a low voice,
began to beg. "Oh, Mist' Peter Wash'ton, don' go fer ter be too ha'd on er
ole man! I nev' come yere fer ter steal 'em. 'Deed I didn't, Mist' Wash'ton! I
come yere jes fer ter feel 'em. Oh, please, Mist' Wash'ton--"
"Come erlong outa
yere, you ol' rip," said Peter, "an' don' trumple on dese yer baids.
I gwine put you wah you won' ketch col'."
Without difficulty he
tumbled the whining Alek over the fence to the road-way, and followed him with
sheriff-like expedition. He took him by the scruff. "Come erlong, deacon.
I raikon I gwine put you wah you kin pray, deacon. Come erlong, deacon."
The emphasis and
reiteration of his layman's title in the church produced a deadly effect upon
Alek. He felt to his marrow the heinous crime into which this treacherous night
had betrayed him. As Peter marched his prisoner up the road toward the mouth of
the lane, he continued his remarks: "Come erlong, deacon. Nev' see er man
so anxious-like erbout er mellum paitch, deacon. Seem like you jes must see 'em
er-growin' an' feel 'em, deacon. Mist' Bryant he'll be s'prised, deacon,
findin' out you come fer ter feel his mellums. Come erlong, deacon. Mist'
Bryant he expectin' some ole rip like you come soon."
They had almost reached
the lane when Alek's cur Susie, who had followed her master, approached in the
silence which attends dangerous dogs; and seeing indications of what she took
to be war, she appended herself swiftly but firmly to the calf of Peter's left
leg. The melee was short, but spirited. Alek had no wish to have his dog
complicate his already serious misfortunes, and went manfully to the defence of
his captor. He procured a large stone, and by beating this with both hands down
upon the resounding skull of the animal, he induced her to quit her grip.
Breathing heavily, Peter dropped into the long grass at the road-side. He said
nothing.
"Mist'
Wash'ton," said Alek at last, in a quavering voice, "I raikon I gwine
wait yere see what you gwine do ter me."
Whereupon Peter passed
into a spasmodic state, in which he rolled to and fro and shook.
"Mist' Wash'ton, I
hope dish yer dog ain't gone an' give you fitses?"
Peter sat up suddenly.
"No, she ain't," he answered; "but she gin me er big skeer; an'
fer yer 'sistance with er cobblestone, Mist' Willums, I tell you what I gwine
do--I tell you what I gwine do." He waited an impressive moment. "I
gwine 'lease you!"
Old Alek trembled like
a little bush in a wind. "Mist' Wash'ton?"
Quoth Peter,
deliberately, "I gwine 'lease you."
The old man was filled
with a desire to negotiate this statement at once, but he felt the necessity of
carrying off the event without an appearance of haste. "Yes, seh; thank
'e, seh; thank 'e, Mist' Wash'ton. I raikon I ramble home pressenly." He
waited an interval, and then dubiously said, "Good-evenin', Mist' Wash'ton."
"Good-evenin',
deacon. Don' come foolin' roun' feelin' no mellums, and I say troof.
Good-evenin', deacon."
Alek took off his hat
and made three profound bows. "Thank 'e, seh. Thank 'e, seh. Thank 'e,
seh."
Peter underwent another
severe spasm, but the old man walked off toward his home with a humble and
contrite heart.
The next morning Alek
proceeded from his shanty under the complete but customary illusion that he was
going to work. He trudged manfully along until he reached the vicinity of Si
Bryant's place. Then, by stages, he relapsed into a slink. He was passing the
garden-patch under full steam, when, at some distance ahead of him, he saw Si
Bryant leaning casually on the garden fence.
"Good-mornin',
Alek."
"Good-mawnin',
Mist' Bryant," answered Alek, with a new deference. He was marching on,
when he was halted by a word-- "Alek!"
He stopped. "Yes,
seh."
"I found a knife
this mornin' in th' road," drawled Si, "an' I thought maybe it was
yourn."
Improved in mind by
this divergence from the direct line of attack, Alek stepped up easily to look
at the knife. "No, seh," he said, scanning it as it lay in Si's palm,
while the cold steel-blue eyes of the white man looked down into his stomach,
"'tain't no knife er mine." But he knew the knife. He knew it as if
it had been his mother. And at the same moment a spark flashed through his head
and made wise his understanding. He knew everything. "'Tain't much of er
knife, Mist' Bryant," he said, deprecatingly.
"'Tain't much of a
knife, I know that," cried Si, in sudden heat, "but I found it this
mornin' in my watermelon-patch--hear?"
"Watahmellum-paitch?"
yelled Alek, not astounded.
"Yes, in my
watermelon-patch," sneered Si, "an' I think you know something about
it, too!"
"Me?" cried
Alek. "Me?"
"Yes--you!"
said Si, with icy ferocity. "Yes--you!" He had become convinced that
Alek was not in any way guilty, but he was certain that the old man knew the
owner of the knife, and so he pressed him at first on criminal lines. "Alek,
you might as well own up now. You've been meddlin' with my watermelons!"
"Me?" cried
Alek again. "Yah's ma knife. I done cah'e it foh yeahs."
Bryant changed his
ways. "Look here, Alek," he said, confidentially. "I know you
and you know me, and there ain't no use in any more skirmishes. I know that you
know whose knife that is. Now whose is it?"
This challenge was so
formidable in character that Alek temporarily quailed and began to stammer.
"Er--now--Mist' Bryant--you--you--frien' er mine--"
"I know I'm a
friend of yours, but," said Bryant, inexorably, "who owns this
knife?"
Alek gathered unto
himself some remnants of dignity and spoke with reproach: "Mist' Bryant,
dish yer knife ain' mine."
"No," said
Bryant, "it ain't. But you know who it belongs to, an' I want you to tell
me--quick."
"Well, Mist'
Bryant," answered Alek, scratching his wool, "I won't say 's I do
know who b'longs ter dish yer knife, an' I won't say 's I don't."
Bryant again laughed
his Yankee laugh, but this time there was little humor in it. It was dangerous.
Alek, seeing that he
had gotten himself into hot water by the fine diplomacy of his last sentence,
immediately began to flounder and totally submerge himself. "No, Mist'
Bryant," he repeated, "I won't say 's I do know who b'longs ter dish
yer knife, an' I won't say 's I don't." And he began to parrot this fatal
sentence again and again. It seemed wound about his tongue. He could not rid
himself of it. Its very power to make trouble for him seemed to originate the
mysterious Afric reason for its repetition.
"Is he a very
close friend of yourn?" said Bryant, softly.
"F-frien'?"
stuttered Alek. He appeared to weigh this question with much care. "Well,
seems like he was er frien', an' then agin, it seems like he--"
"It seems like he
wasn't!" asked Bryant.
"Yes, seh, jest
so, jest so," cried Alek. "Sometimes it seems like he wasn't. Then
agin--" He stopped for profound meditation.
The patience of the
white man seemed inexhaustible. At length his low and oily voice broke the
stillness. "Oh, well, of course if he's a friend of yourn, Alek! You know
I wouldn't want to make no trouble for a friend of yourn."
"Yes, seh,"
cried the negro at once. "He's er frien' er mine. He is dat."
"Well, then, it
seems as if about the only thing to do is for you to tell me his name so's I
can send him his knife, and that's all there is to it."
Alek took off his hat,
and in perplexity ran his hand over his wool. He studied the ground. But
several times he raised his eyes to take a sly peep at the imperturbable visage
of the white man. "Y--y--yes, Mist' Bryant....I raikon dat's erbout all
what kin be done. I gwine tell you who b'longs ter dish yer knife."
"Of course,"
said the smooth Bryant, "it ain't a very nice thing to have to do,
but--"
"No, seh,"
cried Alek, brightly; "I'm gwine tell you, Mist' Bryant. I gwine tell you
erbout dat knife. Mist' Bryant," he asked, solemnly, "does you know
who b'longs ter dat knife?"
"No, I--"
"Well, I gwine
tell. I gwine tell who, Mr. Bryant--" The old man drew himself to a
stately pose and held forth his arm. "I gwine tell who. Mist' Bryant, dish
yer knife b'longs ter Sam Jackson!"
Bryant was startled
into indignation. "Who in hell is Sam Jackson?" he growled.
"He's a
nigger," said Alek, impressively, "and he wuks in er lumber-yawd up
yere in Hoswego."