Annabel

On this Saturday evening, when supper was over, Will sat upon a box at the entrance to the tumble-down shed that was called by courtesy a “barn,” and watched the boarder start out for his regular evening walk.

Mr. Jordan never neglected this exercise, no matter what the weather might be. People in Bingham had long since decided that he walked for the benefit of his health, as a relief from the close confinement at the office during the day; and it amused the gossips that the man’s habits were so regular that neither wind nor snow, frost nor blizzard had never yet induced him to vary his daily programme by staying in doors.

And he always walked in the same direction, turning down the lane to the left of the cottage and following it a full half mile to a grove of great oak and maple trees; through this to the Danville turnpike; along the turnpike to Holmes’ Cross Roads; back to the village, and through the village to the Carden house, where he hung up his hat and went directly to his room for the night. A fine walk – four miles at the least – and an evidence of the man’s perfect health and remarkable physical endurance, when his age and lean body were taken into consideration.

“Mr. Jordan is as tough as hickory,” the people declared; but as his life was so absolutely regular he was never an object of curiosity to his neighbors, who took but a casual interest in him. Perhaps, had he ever varied his programme, even for a day, the act would have occasioned great excitement in Bingham; but he never did.

Tonight Will looked after him thoughtfully, and followed with his eyes Mr. Jordan’s upright form as it moved slowly down the lane toward the distant grove. He wished he might speak with the silent man about his father. If Mr. Jordan had loaned John Carden money and stood by him during all his dark days of experimenting, as the doctor had said, he must have been a good and faithful friend, thought the boy. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind telling Will something more of those old days.

Impelled by this idea, the boy arose and started across lots to overtake the solitary walker. When he came to the lane, Mr. Jordan had not yet reached the grove, but was pacing the road with calm and precise steps, no one an inch longer or shorter than another.

Something about the rigid, unemotional form caused Will to hesitate. He had never spoken much with Mr. Jordan, and suddenly he became abashed at his own temerity. Yet it was always hard for Will to abandon any plan he had once formed. He did not go back; but he slackened his pace, trying to think of the best way to approach the self-absorbed man ahead of him. And so, while he trailed along the lane with halting footsteps, Mr. Jordan came to the edge of the grove and entered it.

The path through the grove curved from left to right, and back again, passing around the big trees that had been spared the axe on account of some whim of their owner, who was none other than Mr. Jordan himself. Lumber men had often tried to buy this bit of fine timber; but the owner refused all offers.

“It will keep,” was his unvarying reply. And it had “kept” for many years.

When Will reached the edge of the trees the man was out of sight around the bend; so the boy, encouraged to hasten, pressed quickly along until the turn in the road was reached, when he stopped in great surprise.

For Mr. Jordan had halted in the center of the grove – really a most unexpected thing for him to do – and, turned half around, was staring fixedly at a large oak that grew a few paces from the road.

Now was the time for Will to join him and open the conversation. He realized his opportunity, and was mustering up the necessary courage to advance, when Mr. Jordan walked straight to the oak tree, cast a hasty, half suspicious glance around him, and then passed one hand swiftly up and down the shaggy bark of the trunk at a point about on a level with his own head.

Will, shrinking back so as to be nearly hidden by a clump of bushes, stared open mouthed at this amazing sight, and while he stared Mr. Jordan returned to the road, faced ahead, and marched as stiffly and deliberately as ever upon his way.

The incident had not occupied more than a minute’s time, but it was strange enough to deprive Will of any desire to overtake or speak with the man he had unwittingly spied upon. He let Mr. Jordan continue his walk, and turning back made his own way leisurely home.

The next morning, when he came to think it all over, he decided that Mr. Jordan’s action in the grove was not nearly so remarkable as he had considered it in the dim light of the preceding evening. Doubtless the owner of those splendid trees had seen some hole in the bark of this oak, or had fancied it damaged in some way, and so had felt of the trunk to reassure himself. Anyone might have done the same thing, and for a dozen different reasons.

Yet why did the man glance around in that curious half-frightened way, as if fearful of being seen, if he was merely about to do an ordinary thing? It was the flash of that single look that had made Will uneasy; that rendered him uneasy every time he thought about it. But he could not explain why. If there was any one person in Bingham who was in no way mysterious that person was Mr. Jordan.

Sunday was a bright, delightful day, and soon after the late breakfast was over the Carden children, dressed in their best, started for the Sunday-school service, which was held before the regular church services began. Egbert and Will walked on either side of little Flo, and the three were as merry and wholesome a group of young folks as one could wish to see. Egbert was not a bit ill-natured or morose on account of his infirmities, but always wore a smile upon his cheerful face. And the village children liked him, as was easily seen by their pleasant nods when the three Cardens joined the group at the church door.

The Williams children were there, too, and while Gladys grabbed Flo’s hand and drew her aside with eager whispers, the others formed a circle around Will and Egbert and tried to make the former feel that they were as friendly as ever, in spite of their mother’s banishment of the “vegetable boy” the day before.

“Mother was a little bit nervous yesterday,” said Mary Louise, in her sweet and sympathetic way. “You mustn’t mind it, Will.”

“Of course I won’t,” he answered, promptly.

“Mother,” said the saucy Annabel, in a reflective tone of voice, “is a reg’lar caution when she gets nervous; and she’s nervous most of the time.”

“Mrs. Williams was quite right,” said Will; “and it was lucky she sent me home, for I’d an awful lot of work to do, and that kite made me forget all about it.”

The bell rang just then, calling them in; but Reginald whispered to Will: “You’re a brick!” and Theodore shyly took his friend’s hand and pressed it within his own as they entered the doorway.

All this did much to warm Will Carden’s heart and restore to him his self-respect, which had been a little shattered by Mrs. Williams’ contemptuous treatment.

However disdainful of poverty some of the grown folks may be, children, if they are the right sort, are more apt to judge a comrade by his quality and merit, than by the amount of his worldly possessions. And Will decided the Williams children were “the right sort.”

CHAPTER IV

MEIGS, MUSHROOMS AND MONEY

“Will,” said Dr. Meigs, as he stopped one afternoon to lean over the garden fence, “how are things going?”

“Pretty well, Doctor,” answered the boy, cheerfully.

“Are you getting ahead, and laying by something for the winter months, when the vegetables won’t grow?”

“Were getting ahead some,” said Will, becoming grave; “but it’s always a struggle for us in the winter, you know. I guess I’ll try to get a job in the steel works in October. I’m pretty husky, for my age, and I ought to be able to earn fair wages.”

“Humph!” growled the doctor, frowning upon the young fellow fiercely. “You think you’ve had schooling enough, do you?”

“Oh, no! But mother needs help. She’s getting more tired and pale looking every day; and Egbert can’t do much with his bad arm. So it’s a case of force, Doctor. I’ve just got to dig in and do something.”

“That’s true,” replied the big doctor. “But you’re going to be more than a mere laboring man when you grow up, Will Carden, and I don’t mean to let you get into those beastly mills. They’d sap your young strength in no time, and make you an old man before your years would warrant it. No; we’ll think of something else. Read that!”

He thrust a small book into the boy’s hand and immediately marched away down the road.

Will looked at the book wonderingly. It was a treatise on mushroom culture; something he had never heard of before. But he spent his leisure during the next few days reading it carefully and the author told how a great deal of money could be made by raising mushrooms on a small plot of ground, under proper conditions and with intelligent care.

When again he saw Doctor Meigs Will said to him:

“Here’s your book, Doctor. It’s interesting, all right; but I can’t see how I could possibly do anything at that business.”

“Why not?” enquired the doctor, seating himself calmly by Will’s side, with the evident intention of arguing the question.

“In the first place,” said Will, “I’ve got no way to raise mushrooms. They need a warm spot of earth, to do well; and a rich soil, and plenty of shade.”

“Good!” said the doctor, nodding approval. “I see you’ve paid some attention to the matter. Well, that old barn of yours is just the place.”

“The barn!”

“Surely. I’ve just been examining it. It never was anything more than a shed, without even a floor; and for a long time, while Deacon Wilder owned this place, horses and cattle were kept there. The soil in that barn is two feet thick and very rich. It’ll grow mushrooms like sixty!”

“But it’s cold in the barn, in winter. The boards are falling off in places, and – ”

“We’ll patch it up,” said the doctor, with decision; “and we’ll put a heater in it – one of these regular green-house boilers, with hot-water pipes running under the surface of the ground, so as to keep the soil always warm. Firewood doesn’t cost much in this part of the country.”

Will smiled at such cheerful optimism.

“And when you’ve raised the things,” he said, “what are you going to do with them? The Bingham people wouldn’t buy ten cents’ worth of mushrooms in ten years.”

The doctor snorted contemptuously.

“The Bingham people! Do you think I’m a fool, Will Carden?”

“Who then?”