Produced by David Widger THE JACK-KNIFE MAN By Ellis Parker Butler Author Of âPigs Is Pigs,â âThe Confessions Of A Daddy,â Etc. Illustrated By Hanson Booth New York The Century Co. 1913 MY FATHER Whose heart has held many children. Transcriber's Note: Chapter VI is succeeded by Chapter VIII without a designated intervening Chapter VII. DW I. THE JACK-KNIFE MAN PETER LANE GEORGE RAPP, the red-faced livery-man from town, stood with his hands in the pockets of his huge bear-skin coat, his round face glowing, looking down at Peter Lane, with amusement wrinkling the corners of his eyes. âTell you what I'll do, Peter,â he said, âI'll give you thirty-five dollars for the boat.â âI guess I won't sell, George,â said Peter. âI don't seem to care to.â He was sitting on the edge of his bunk, in the shanty-boat he had spent the summer in building. He was a thin, wiry little man, with yellowish hair that fell naturally into ringlets: but which was rather thin on top of his head. His face was brown and weather-seamed. It was difficult to guess just how old Peter Lane might be. When his eyes were closed he looked rather old-quite like a thin, tired old man-but when his eyes were open he looked quite young, for his eyes were large and innocent, like the eyes of a baby, and their light blue suggested hopefulness and imagination of the boyish, aircastle-building sort. The shanty-boat was small, only some twenty feet in length, with a short deck at either end. The shanty part was no more than fifteen feet long and eight feet wide, built of thin boards and roofed with tar paper. Inside were the bunk--of clean white pine--a home-made pine table, a small sheet-iron cook-stove, two wooden pegs for Peter's shotgun, a shelf for his alarm-clock, a breadbox, some driftwood for the stove, and a wall lamp with a silvered glass reflector. In one corner was a tangle of nets and trot-lines. It was not much of a boat, but the flat-bottomed hull was built of good two-inch planks, well caulked and tarred. Tar was the prevailing odor. Peter bent over his table, on which the wheels and springs of an alarm-clock were laid in careful rows. âDid you ever stop to think, George, what a mighty fine companion a clock like this is for a man like I am?â he asked. âYes, sir, a tin clock like this is a grand thing for a man like me. I can take this clock to pieces, George, and mend her, and put her together again, and when she's mended all up she needs mending more than she ever did. A clock like this is always something to look forward to.â âI might give as much as forty dollars for the boat,â said George Rapp temptingly. âNo, thank you, George,â said Peter. âAnd it ain't only when you 're mending her that a clock like this is interesting. She's interesting all the time, like a baby. She don't do a thing you'd expect, all day long. I can mend her right up, and wind her and set her right in the morning, and set the alarm to go off at four o'clock in the afternoon, and at four o'clock what do you think she'll be doing? Like as not she'll be pointing at half-past eleven. Yes, sir! And the alarm won't go off until half-past two at night, maybe. Why I mended this clock once and left two wheels out of her--â âTell you what I'll do, Peter,â said Rapp, âI'll give _fifty_ dollars for the boat, and five dollars for floating her down to my new place down the river.â âI'm much obliged, but I guess I won't sell,â said Peter nervously. âYou better take off your coat, George, unless you want to hurry away. That stove is heating up. She's a wonderful stove, that stove is. You wouldn't think, to look at her right now, that she could go out in a minute, would you? But she can. Why, when she wants to, that stove can start in and get red hot all over, stove-pipe and legs and all, until it's so hot in here the tar melts off them nets yonder--drips off 'em like rain off the bob-wires. You'd think she'd suffocate me out of here, but she don't. No, sir. The very next minute she'll be as cold as ice. For a man alone as much as I am that's a great stove, George.â âWill you sell me the boat, or won't you?â asked Rapp. âNow, I wish you wouldn't ask me to sell her, George,â said Peter regretfully, for it hurt him to refuse his friend. âTo tell you the honest truth, George, I can't sell her because it would upset my plans. I've got my plans all laid out to float down river next spring, soon as the ice goes out, and when I get to New Orleans I'm going to load this boat on to a ship, and I'm going to take her to the Amazon River, and trap chinchillas. I read how there's a big market for chinchilla skins right now. I'm goin' up the Amazon River and then I'm goin' to haul the boat across to the Orinoco River and float down the Orinoco, and then--â âYou told me last week you were going down to Florida next spring and shoot alligators from this boat,â said Rapp. Peter looked up blankly, but in a moment his cheerfulness returned. âIf I didn't forget all about that!â he began. âWell, sir, I'm glad I did! That would have been a sad mistake. It looks to me like alligator skin was going out of fashion. I'd be foolish to take this boat all the way to Florida and then find out there was no market for alligator skins, wouldn't I?â âYou would,â said Rapp. âAnd you might get down there in South America and find there was no market for chinchillas. It looks to me as if the style was veering off from chinchillas already. You'd better sell me the boat, Peter.â âYou know I'd sell to you if I would to anybody, George,â said Peter, pushing aside the works of the clock, âbut this boat is a sort of home to me, George. It's the only home I 've got, since Jane don't want me 'round no more. You're the best friend I've got, and you've done a lot for me--you let me sleep in your stable whenever I want to, and you give me odd jobs, and clothes--and I appreciate it, George, but a man don't like to get rid of his home, if he can help it. I haven't had a home I could call my own since I was fourteen years old, as you might say, and I'm going on fifty years old now. Ever since Jane got tired havin' me 'round I've been livin' in your barn, and in old shacks, and anywheres, and now, when I've got a boat that's a home for me, and I can go traveling in her whenever I want to go, you want me to sell her. No, I don't want to sell her, George. I think maybe I'll start her down river to-morrow, so as to be able to start up the Missouri when the ice goes out--â âI thought you said Amazon a minute ago,â said Rapp. âWell, now, I don't know,â said Peter soberly. âThe fevers they catch down there wouldn't do my health a bit of good. Rocky Mountain air is just what I need. It is grand air. If I can get seventy or eighty dollars together, and a good rifle or two, I may start next spring. I always wanted to have a try at bear shootin'. I've got sev'ral plans.â âAnd somehow,â said Rapp, who knew Peter could no more raise seventy dollars than freeze the sun, âsomehow you always land right back in Widow Potter's cove for the winter, don't you? She'll get you yet, Peter. And then you won't need this boat. All you got to do is to ask her.â Peter pushed the table away and stood up, a look of trouble in his blue eyes. âI wish you wouldn't talk like that, George,â he said seriously. âIt ain't fair to the widow to connect up my name and hers that way. She wouldn't like it if she got to hear it. You know right well she don't think no more of me than she does of any other river-rat or shanty-boatman that hangs around this cove all summer, and yet you keep saying, 'Widow, widow, widow!' to me all the time. I wish you wouldn't, George.â He opened the door of his shanty-boat and looked out. The cove in which the boat was tied was on the Iowa side of the Mississippi, and during the summer it had been crowded with a small colony of worthless shanty-boatmen and their ill-kempt wives and children, direly poor and afflicted with all the ills that dirt is heir to. Here, each summer, they gathered, coming from up-river in their shanty-boats and floating on downriver just ahead of the cold weather in the fall. All summer their shanty-boats, left high and dry by the receding high water of the June flood, stood on the parched mud, and Peter looked askance on all of them, dirty and lazy as they were, but somehow--he could not have told you why--he made friends with them each summer, lending them dimes that were never repaid, helping them set their trot-lines that the women might have food, and even aiding in the caulking of their boats when his own was crying to be built. All summer and autumn Peter had been building his shanty-boat, rowing loads of lumber in his heavy skiff from the town to the spot he had chosen on the Illinois shore, five miles above the town. He had worked on the boat, as he did everything for himself, irregularly and at odd moments, and the boat had been completed but a few days before George Rapp drove up from town, hoping to buy it. Peter believed he loved solitude and usually chose a summer dwelling-place far above town, but if he had gone to the uttermost solitudes of Alaska he would have found some way of mingling with his fellow-men and of doing a good turn to some one. He never dreamed he was associating with the worthless shanty-boatmen, yet, somehow, he spent a good part of his time with them. They were there, they were willing to accept aid of any and all kinds, and on his occasional trips to town Peter passed them. This was enough to draw him into the entanglement of their woes, and to waste thankless days on them. Yet he never thought of making one of their colony. He would row the two miles to reach them, but he rowed back again each evening. It was because he was better at heart, and not because he thought he was better, that he remained aloof to this extent. In his own estimation he ranked himself even lower than the shanty-boatmen, for they at least had the social merit of having families, while he had none. His sister Jane had told him many times just how worthless he was, and he believed it. He was nothing to anybody--he felt--and that is what a tramp is. Once each week or so Peter rowed to town to sell the product of his jack-knife and such fish as he caught. He was not an enthusiastic fisherman, but his jack-knife, always keen and sharp, was a magic tool in his hand. When he was not making shapely boats for the shanty-boat kids, or whittling for the mere pleasure of whittling, his jack-knife shaped wooden kitchen spoons and other small household articles, or net-makers' shuttles, out of clean maplewood, and these, when he went to town, he peddled from door to door. What he could not sell he traded for coffee or bacon at the grocery stores. With the coming of cool weather and the âfall riseâ of the river the shanty-boat colony left the cove, to float down-river ahead of the frost, and Peter hurried the completion of his boat that he might float it across to the cove. Rheumatism often gave him a twinge in winter and when the river was âclosedâ the walk to town across the ice was cold and long. The Iowa side was more thickly populated, too, for the Iowa âbottomâ was narrow, the hills coming quite to the river in places, while on the Illinois side five or six miles of untillable âbottomâ stretched between the river and the prosperous hill farms. The Iowa side offered opportunities for corn-husking and wood-sawing and other odd jobs such as necessity sometimes drove Peter to seek. These opportunities were the reasons Peter gave himself, but the truth was that Peter loved people. If he was a tramp he was a sedentary tramp, and if he was a hermit he was a socialistic hermit. He liked his solitudes well peopled. This early November day Peter had brought his shanty-boat across the river to the cove. A fair up-river breeze and his rag of a sail had helped him fight the stiff current, but it had been a hard, all-day pull at the oars of his skiff, and when he had towed the boat into the cove and had made her fast by looping his line under the railway track that skirted the bank, he was wet and weary. His tin breadbox was empty and he had but a handful of coffee left, but he was too tired to go to town, and he had nothing to trade if he went, and he knew by experience that an appeal to a farmer--even to Widow Potter--meant wood-sawing, and he was too tired to saw wood. But he was accustomed to going without a meal now and then, and there being nothing else to do, he tightened his belt, made a good fire, took off his shoes, and dissected his alarm-clock. He was reassembling it when George Rapp arrived. George Rapp was a bluff, hearty, loud-voiced, duck-hunting liveryman. He ran his livery-stable for a living and, like many other men in the Mississippi valley, he lived for duck-hunting. He owned the four best duck dogs in the county. He had traded a good horse for one of them. Although George Rapp would not have believed it, it was a blessing that he could not hunt ducks the year around. The summer and winter months gave him time to make money, and he was making all he needed. Some of his surplus he had just paid for a tract of low, wooded bottom-land, in the section where ducks were most plentiful in their seasons. The land was swamp, for the most part, and all so low that the river spread over it at every spring âriseâ and often in the autumn. It was cut by a slough (or bayou, as they are called farther south) and held a rice lake which was no more than a widening of the slough. This piece of property, far below the town, Rapp had bought because it was a wild-duck haunt, and for no other reason, and after looking it over he wisely decided that a shanty-boat moored in the slough would be a better hunting cabin than one built on the shore, where it would be flooded once, or perhaps twice a year, the river leaving a deposit of rich yellow mud and general dampness each time. But Peter would not sell his boat, and Peter's boat, new, clean and sturdy of hull, was the boat Rapp wanted. âI wish you wouldn't talk that way about the widow, George,â said Peter, looking out of the open door. The liveryman's team was tied to a fence at the foot of the hills, and between the road and the railway tracks that edged the river a wide corn-field extended. A cold drizzle half hid the hillside where Widow Potter's low, white farmhouse, with its green shutters, stood in the midst of a decaying apple orchard. âI wisht the widow lived farther off. There ain't no place like this cove to winter a boat, and when I'm here I've got to saw wood for her, and shuck corn, and do odd jobs for her, and then she lights into me. I don't say I'm any better than a tramp, George, but the way the widow jaws at me, and the things she calls me, ain't right. She thinks I'm scum--just common, low-down, worthless scum! So that's all there is to that.â âOh, shucks!â said George Rapp. But Peter believed it. For five years the Widow Potter had kept a jealous eye on Peter Lane. Tall and thin, penny-saving and hard-working, she had been led a hard life by the late Mr. Potter, who had been something rather worse than a brute, and since death had removed Mr. Potter the widow had given Peter Lane the full benefit of her experienced tongue whenever opportunity offered. It was her way of showing Peter unusual attention, but Peter never suspected that when she glared at him and told him he was a worthless, good-for-nothing loafer and a lazy, paltering, river-rat, and a no-account, idling vagabond she was showing him a flattering partiality. He knew she could make him squirm. It was Love-in-Chapped-Hands, but Mrs. Potter herself did not know she scolded Peter because she liked him. She counted him as a poor stick, of little account to himself or to any one else, but what her mind could not, her heart did recognize--that Peter was Romance. He was a whiff of something that had never come into her life before; he was a gentleman, a chivalrous gentleman, a gentleman down at the heel, but a true gentleman for all that. âThe way me and her hates each other, George, is like cats and dogs,â said Peter. âI don't go near her unless I have to, and when I do she claws me all up.â âAll right,â said Rapp, laughing, âbut you could do a lot worse than tie up to a good house and cook-stove. If you make up your mind to go housekeeping and to sell the boat, let me know. I'll get along home. It is going to be a dog of a night.â âI won't change my mind about the boat, George,â said Peter. âGood night.â He closed the door and bolted it. âGeorge means all right,â he said, settling himself to his task of reassembling his clock, âbut he's sort of coarse.â The storm, increasing with the coming of night, darkened the interior of the cabin, and Peter lighted his lamp. As he worked over the clock the drizzle turned into a heavy rain through which damp snowflakes fluttered, and the wind strengthened and turned colder, slapping the rain and snow against the small, four-paned window and freezing it there. It was blowing up colder every minute and Peter put his handful of coffee in his coffee-pot and set it on the stove to boil while he completed his clock job. He tested the clock and found that if he set the alarm for six o'clock it burst into song at seventeen minutes after three. A thin smile twisted the corners of his mouth humorously. âYou skeesicks! You old skeesicks!â he said affectionately. âAin't you a caution!â He set the clock on its shelf where it ticked loudly while he drew his table closer to the bunk, his only seat, and put his coffeepot and tin cup on the table. âWell, now,â he said cheerfully, âas long as there ain't anything to eat I might as well whet up my jack-knife.â He whetted the large blade of his knife while he sipped the coffee. From time to time he put down the tin cup and tried the blade of the knife on his thumb, and when he was satisfied it was so sharp any further whetting meant a wire edge, he took a crumpled newspaper from under the pillow of his bunk and read again the article on the increased demand for chinchilla fur, but it had lost interest. The wind was slapping against the side of the boat in gusts and the frost was gathering on his windows, but Peter replenished his fire and lighted the cheap cigar George Rapp had left on the clock shelf. What does a hermit do when he is shut in for a long night with a winter storm raging outside? Peter put his newspaper back under the pillow and hunted through his driftwood for a piece that would do to whittle, but had to give that up as a bad job. Then his eyes alighted on the wooden pegs on which his shot-gun lay, and he took down the gun and pulled one of the pegs from its hole. He looked out of the door, to see that his line was holding securely, and slammed the door quickly, for the night was worse, the rain freezing as it fell and the wind howling through the telegraph wires. With a sigh of satisfaction that he was alone, and that he had a snug shanty-boat in which to spend the winter, Peter propped himself up in his bunk and began carving the head of an owl on the end of the gun peg, screwing his face to one side to keep the cigar smoke out of his eyes. He was holding the half-completed carving at a distance, to judge of its effect, when he heard a blow on his door. He hesitated, like a timid animal, and then slipped from the bunk and let his hand glide to the shot-gun lying on his table. Quietly he swung the gun around until the muzzle pointed full at the door, and with the other hand he grasped his heavy stove poker, for he knew that tramps, on such a night, are not dainty in seeking shelter, and he had no wish to be thrown out of his boat and have the boat floated away from him. âWho's out there?â he shouted, but before he could step forward and bolt the door, the latch lifted and the door, forced violently inward by a gust of wind, clattered against the cabin wall. A woman, one hand extended, stood in the doorway. Her face was deathly white, and her left hand held the hand of a three-year-old boy. This much Peter saw before the flame of his lamp flared high in a smoky red and went out, leaving utter darkness. [Ill: 46] II. PETER'S GUESTS âCOME right in, ma'am,â said Peter. âStep inside and close the door. Nobody here's going to hurt you. I'll put my shoes on in a minute--â He was feeling for the matches on his clock shelf, but he hardly knew what he was doing or saying. The ghastly white face of the woman was still blazed on his mind. âExcuse me for being bare foot; I wasn't looking for callers,â he continued nervously, but he was interrupted by the sound of a falling body and a cry. He pushed one of the stove lids aside, letting a glare of red light into the room. The woman had fallen across his doorsill and lay, half in and half out of the boat, with the boy crying as he clung to her relaxed fingers. âDon't, Mama! don't!â the small boy wailed, not understanding. Peter stood, irresolute. He was a coward before women; they drove his wits away, and his first wild thought was of flight--of leaping over the fallen body--but, as he stood, the alarm-clock, after a preliminary warning cluck, burst into a loud jangling clatter and the boy, sore frightened, howled with all his strength. That decided for Peter. âThere, now, don't you cry, son!â he begged, on his knees beside the boy in an instant. âDon't you mind the racket. It ain't nothing but my old funny alarm-clock. She goes off that way sometimes, but she don't mean any harm to anybody. No, sir! Don't you cry.â The boy wailed, more wildly than ever, calling on his mother to get up. âDon't cry, your ma will be all right!â urged Peter. âThat clock will stop right soon, and she won't begin again--not unless she takes a notion.â The clock stopped ringing abruptly, the boy stared at it open-mouthed. âThat's a big boy!â said Peter approvingly. âAnd don't you worry about your ma. I guess she'll be all right in a minute. You go over by that stove and warm yourself, and I'll help your ma in, so this rain won't blow on her.â Peter led the boy to the stove, and lighted his lamp. He put the peg back in the wall, and placed the gun behind the boy's reach before he turned to the woman. She was neither young nor old, but as she lay on the floor she was ghastly white, even in the glare from the smoking oil lamp, and her lips were blue. Her cheap hat was wet and weighted down with sleet, and the green dye from the trimmings had run down and streaked her face. She was fairly well clad, but not against the winter rain, and her shoes were too light and too high of heel for tramping a railway track. Peter saw she was wet to the skin. He bent down and with his knee against her shoulder moved her inside the door and closed it. âThat's hot in there,â said the boy, who had been staring into the glowing coals of the opened stove. âI better not put my hand in there. I'll burn my hand if I put it in there, won't I?â âYes, indeedy,â said Peter, âbut now I got to fix your ma so's she will be more comfortable.â âI wish I had some liquor or something,â he said, looking at the woman helplessly. âBrandy or whisky would be right handy, and I ain't got a drop. This ain't no case for cold water; she's had too much cold water already. I wonder what coffee would do?â He put his coffee-pot down among the coals of his fire and while he waited for it to heat, he drew on his shoes. âI guess your ma will feel sort of sick when she wakes up,â he told the boy, âand I guess she'd be right glad if we took off them wet shoes and stockings of yours and got your feet nice and warm. You want to be ready to help look after your ma. You ain't going to be afraid to let me, are you?â âNo,â said the boy promptly, and held out his arms for Peter to take him. He was a solid little fellow, as Peter found when he picked him up, and his hair was a tangled halo of long, white kinks that burst out when Peter pulled off the red stocking-cap into which they had been compressed. From the first moment the boy snuggled to Peter, settling himself contentedly in Peter's arms as affectionate children do. He had a comical little up-tilt to his nose, and eyes of a deeper blue than Peter's, and his face was white but covered with freckles. âThat's my good foot,â said the boy, as Peter pulled off one stocking. âWell, it looks like a mighty good one to me, too,â said Peter. âSo far as I can see, it is just as good as anybody'd want.â âYes. It's my hop-on-foot,â explained the boy. âThe other foot is the lame one. It ain't such a good foot. It's Mama's honey-foot.â âPshaw, now!â said Peter gently. âWell, I'll be real careful and not hurt it a bit.â He began removing the shoe and stocking from the lame foot with delicate care, and the boy laughed delightedly. âHo! You don't have to be careful with it,â he laughed, giving a little kick. âYou thought it was a sore foot, didn't you? It ain't sore, it's only lame.â Peter put the barefoot boy on the edge of the bunk and hung the wet stockings over his woodpile. The boy asked for the jack-knife again, and Peter handed it to him. âYou just set there,â he told the boy, âand wiggle your toes at the stove, like they was ten little kittens, and I'll see if your ma wants a drink of nice, hot coffee.â He poured the coffee into his tin cup and went to the woman, raised her head, and held the hot coffee to her lips. At the first touch of the hot liquid she opened her eyes and laughed; a harsh, mirthless laugh, which made her strangle on the coffee, but when her eyes met Peter's eyes, the oath that was on her lips died unspoken. No woman, and but few men, could look into Peter's eyes and curse, and her eyes were not those of a drunkard, as Peter had supposed they would be. âThat's all right,â she said. âI must have keeled over, didn't I? Where's Buddy?â âHe's right over there warming his little feet, as nice as can be,â said Peter. âAnd he was real concerned about you.â âI wouldn't have come in, but for him,â said the woman, trying to straighten her hat. âI thought maybe he could get a bite to eat. It don't matter much what, he ain't eat since noon. A piece of bread would do him 'til we get to town.â She leaned back wearily against the pile of nets in the corner. âI want butter on it. Bread, and butter on it,â said Buddy promptly. âThere, now!â said Peter accusingly. âI might have knowed it was foolish to let myself run so low on food. A man can't tell when food is going to come in handiest, and here I went and let myself run clean out of it. But don't you worry, ma'am,â he hastened to add, âI'll get some in no time. Just you let me help you over on to my bunk. I ain't got a chair or I'd offer it to you whilst I run up to one of my neighbors and get you a bite to eat. I've got good neighbors. That's one thing!â The woman caught Peter by the arm and drew herself up, laughing weakly at her weakness. She tottered, but Peter led her to the bunk with all the courtesy of a Raleigh escorting an Elizabeth, and she dropped on the edge of the bunk and sat there warming her hands and staring at the stove. She seemed still near exhaustion. âIf you'll excuse me, now, ma'am,â said Peter, when he had made sure she was not going to faint again, âI'll just step across to my neighbor's and get something for the boy to eat. I won't probably be gone more than a minute, and whilst I'm gone I'll arrange for a place for me to sleep to-night. You hadn't ought to make that boy walk no further to-night. It's a real bad night outside.â âThat's all right. I don't want to chase you out,â said the woman. âNot at all,â said Peter politely. âI frequently sleep elsewheres. It'll be no trouble at all to make arrangements.â He put more wood in the stove, opened the dampers, and lighted his lantern. Then he pinned his coat close about his neck with a blanket pin, and, as he passed the clock shelf, slipped the alarm swiftly from its place and hid it beneath his coat. âI'll be right back, as soon as I can,â he said, and, drawing his worn felt hat down over his eyes, he stepped out hastily and slammed the door behind him. âWhy did the man take the clock?â asked the boy as the door closed. âI guess he thought I'd steal it,â said the woman languidly. â_Would_ you steal it?â asked the boy. âI guess so,â the woman answered, and closed her eyes, III. PETER LODGES OUT AS Peter crossed the icy plank that led from his boat to the railway embankment he tried to whistle, but the wind was too strong and sharp, and he drew his head between his shoulders and closed his mouth tightly. He had understated the distance to Widow Potter's when he had said it was âjust across.â In fair weather and daylight he often cut across the corn-field, but on such a night as this the trip meant a long plod up the railway track until he came to the crossing, and then a longer tramp back the slushy road, a good half mile in all. When he turned in at Widow Potter's open gate a great yellow dog came rushing at him, barking, but a word from Peter silenced him and the dog fell behind obediently but watchfully, and followed Peter to where the light shone through the widow's kitchen window. Peter rapped on the door. âWho's out there?â Mrs. Potter called sharply. âI got a gun in here, and I ain't afraid to use it. If you 're a tramp, you'd better git!â âIt's Peter Lane,â Peter called, loud enough to be heard above the wind. âI want to buy a couple of eggs off you, Mrs. Potter.â The door opened the merest crack and Mrs. Potter peered out. She did not have a gun, but she held a stove poker. When she saw Peter she opened the door wide. It was a brusk welcome. âOf all the shiftlessness I ever heard of, Peter Lane,â she said angrily, âyou beat all! Cormin' for eggs this time of night when your boat's been in the cove nobody knows how long. I suppose it never come into your head to get eggs until you got hungry for them, did it?â Peter closed the door and stood with his back to it. At all times he feared Mrs. Potter, but especially when he gave her some cause for reproof. âI had some company drop in on me unexpected, Mrs. Potter,â he said apologetically. âIf I hadn't, I wouldn't have bothered you. I hate it worse'n you do.â âTramps, I dare say,â said the widow. âYou 're that shiftless you'd give the shoes off your feet and the food out of your mouth to feed any good-for-nothing that come camping on you. You don't get my good eggs to feed such trash, Peter Lane! Winter eggs are worth money.â âI thought to pay for them,â said Peter meekly. âI wouldn't ask them of you any other way, Mrs. Potter.â âWell, if you 've got the money I suppose I've got to let you have them,â said the widow grudgingly. âEggs is worth three cents apiece, and I hate to have 'em fed to tramps. How many do you want to buy?â Peter shifted from one foot to another uncomfortably. âWell, now, I'm what you might call a little short of ready money tonight,â he said. âI thought maybe I might come over and saw some wood for you tomorrow--â âAnd so you can,â said Mrs. Potter promptly, âand when the wood is sawed they will be paid for, in eggs or money, and not until it is sawed. I'm not going to encourage you to run into debt. You 're shiftless enough now, goodness knows.â Peter tried to smile and ignored the accusation. âThere couldn't be anything fairer than that,â he said. âNobody ought to object to that sort of arrangement at all. That's real business-like. Only, there's a small boy amongst the company that dropped in on me and he's only about so high--â Peter showed a height that would have been small for an infant dwarf. âHe's a real nice little fellow, and if you was ever a boy that high, and crying because you wanted something to eat--â âI don't believe a word of it!â snapped Mrs. Potter. âIf there is a child down there he ought to be in bed long ago.â âYes'm,â agreed Peter meekly. âThat's so. You wouldn't put even a dog that size to bed hungry. So, if you could let me have about half-a-dozen eggs, I'll go right back.â âSix eggs at three cents is eighteen cents,â said Mrs. Potter firmly, looking Peter directly in the eye. She was not bad looking. Her cheek bones were rather high and prominent and her cheeks hollow, and she had a strong chin for a woman, but the downward twist of discouragement that had marked her mouth during her later married years had already disappeared, giving place to a firmness that told she was well able to manage her own affairs. Peter drew his alarm-clock from beneath his coat and stood it on the kitchen table. âI brought along this alarm-clock,â he said, âso you'd know I'd come back like I say I will. She's a real good clock. I paid eighty cents for her when she was new, and I just fixed her up fresh to-day. She's running quite--quite a little, since I fixed her.â Mrs. Potter did not look at the clock. She looked at Peter. âSo!â she exclaimed. âSo that's what you've come to, Peter Lane! Pawnin' your goods and chattels! That's what shiftless folks always come to in the end.â âAnd so, if you'll let me have half-a-dozen eggs, and maybe some pieces of bread and butter and a handful of coffee,â said Peter, âI'll leave the clock right here as security that I'll come up first thing in the morning and saw wood 'til you tell me I've sawed enough.â Mrs. Potter took the clock in her hand and looked at Peter. âHow old did you say that boy is?â she asked. âGoin' on three, I should judge. He's a real nice little feller,â said Peter eagerly. Mrs. Potter put the clock on her kitchen table. âFiddlesticks! I don't believe a word of it. Who else have you got down there?â âJust his--his parent,â said Peter, blushing. âI wisht you could see that little feller. Maybe I'll bring him up here to-morrow and let you see him.â âMaybe you won't!â said the widow. âIf you 're hungry you can set down and I'll fry you as many eggs as you want to eat, but you can't come over me with no story about visitors bringin' you children on a night like this! No, sir! You don't get none of my eggs for your worthless tramps. Shall I fry you some?â Peter looked down and frowned. Then he raised his head and looked full in the widow's eyes and smiled. Nothing but the direct need could have induced him to smile thus at the widow for he knew and feared the result. When, once or twice before, he had looked into her eyes and smiled in this way--unthinkingly--she had fluttered and trembled like a bird in the presence of an overmastering fascination, and Peter did not like that. Such power frightened him. The widow, scolding and condemning, he could escape, but the widow fluttering and trembling, was a thing to be afraid of. It made him flutter and tremble, too. When Peter smiled the widow drew in her breath sharply. âSix--six eggs--will six eggs be all you want?â she asked hurriedly. âYes'm,â said Peter, still smiling, âunless you could spare some bread _and_ butter. He 'specially asked for butter,â and then he looked down. The widow drew another long breath. âI don't believe you've got a boy down there, and I don't believe you've got a visitor that deserves nothing,â she said crossly. She was herself again. âI know you from hair to sole-leather, Peter Lane, and if any worthless scamp came and camped on you, you'd lie your head off to get food for him, and that's what I think you 're doing now, but there ain't no way of telling. If so be you have got a boy down there I don't want him to go hungry, but if it's just some worthless tramp, I hope these eggs choke him. You ain't got a mite of common sense in you. You 're too soft, and that's why you don't get on. You'd come up here to-morrow and do a dollar's worth of wood sawing for eighteen cents' worth of eggs, and then give the eggs to the first tramp that asked you. What you ought to have is a wife. You ought to have a wife with a mind like a hatchet and a tongue like a black-snake whip, and you might be worth shucks, anyway. You just provoke me beyond patience.â âYes'm,â said Peter nervously. Mrs. Potter was cutting thick, enticing slices from a big loaf and spreading them with golden butter. âI reckon you want jam on this bread?â she asked suddenly. âYes, thank you!â said Peter. âWell, maybe you _have_ got a boy down there,â said Mrs. Potter reluctantly. âYou'd be ashamed to ask for jam if you hadn't. If you had a wife and she was any account you'd have bread and jam when boys come to see you. But I do pity the woman that gets you, Peter Lane! No woman on this earth but a widow that has had experience with men-folks could ever make anything out of you.â Peter put his hand on the door-knob, ready for instant flight. When he smiled on Mrs. Potter something like this usually resulted and that was why he tried it so seldom. It was he, now, who trembled and fluttered. âI'm not thinking of getting married at all,â he said. âI couldn't afford to, anyway.â âYou needn't think, just because you are no-account, some fool woman wouldn't take you,â snapped Mrs. Potter. âLook at what my first husband was. Women marry all sorts of trash.â Peter watched the progress of the bread and jam, trusting its preparation would not be delayed long. âIf they're asked,â said Mrs. Potter. She seemed very cross about something. She wrapped the slices of bread in a clean sheet of paper from her table drawer, folding in the ends of the paper angrily. âBut they don't do the asking,â she added. Peter took the parcel, and slipped the six clean white eggs into his pocket. He wanted to get away, but Mrs. Potter stopped him. âI suppose, if there is a boy down there, I've got to give you what's left of my roast chicken,â she grumbled, âor you'll be coming up here about the time I get into bed, routing me out for more victuals. If I had a husband, and he was like you, and he had a mind to feed all the tramps in the county, he wouldn't have to rout me out of bed to do it. He could go to the cupboard himself, and feed them.â âNow, that clock,â said Peter hastily, âif I was you I wouldn't depend too much on her alarm to get you up. I can't say she's regulated just the way I'd like to have her yet. And I'm much obliged to you.â âI don't want your clock!â said Mrs. Potter, but Peter had slipped out of the door, closing it behind him. The widow held the clock in her hand for a full minute, and then set it gently beside her own opulent Seth Thomas. âI dare say you 're about as well regulated as he is,â she said, âand that ain't saying much for either of you. He ain't got the eyes to see through a grindstone!â When Peter returned to the boat, the boy was busily trying to work one of the trot-line hooks out of the sleeve of his jacket, but the woman had dropped back on the bunk and her eyes were closed. She opened them when the rush of cold air from the door struck her face, and looked at Peter listlessly. âI guess you don't feel like cooking a couple of eggs,â said Peter, âso if you'll excuse me remaining here awhile, I'll do it for you. I'm a fair to middling fried-egg cook. Son, you let me get that hook out of you, and then see if you can eat five or six of these pieces of bread and jam. I could when I was a boy, and then I could wind up with a piece of chicken like this.â âI hooked myself,â the boy explained. âI should say you did,â said Peter. âYou want to look out for these hooks, they bite a boy like a cat-fish stinger, and that ain't much fun. I'm right glad you dropped in,â he said to the woman, âbecause I've got such good neighbors. It's almost impossible to keep them from forcing more eggs and butter and such things on me than I'd know what to do with. 'Just come on up when you want anything,' they are always saying, 'and help yourself.' So it's quite nice to have somebody drop in and give me a chance to show my neighbors I ain't too proud to take a few eggs and such. It would surprise you to see how eager they are that way.â He scraped the butter from one of the pieces of bread, needing it to fry the eggs in, and he worked as he talked, breaking the eggs into the frying-pan and watching that they were cooked to a turn. âI certainly am blessed with nice neighbors,â he said. âThere's a widow lady lives a step or two beyond the railroad, and seems as if she couldn't do enough for me. She just lays herself out to see that I'm overfed. Do you feel like you could eat a small part of chicken?â The woman let her eyes rest on Peter some time before she spoke. âI ought to feel hungry, but I don't,â she said. âWell, maybe a soft-boiled egg _would_ be better. I ought to have thought of that,â said Peter as if he had been reproved. âYou'll have to excuse me for boiling it in the coffee-pot, I've been so busy planning a trip I'm going to take I haven't had time to lay in much tinware yet.â â_Where_ did you take the clock?â asked the boy suddenly. Peter reddened under his tan. âThat clock?â he said hesitatingly. âWhere did I take that clock? Well, the fact is--the fact is that clock is a nuisance. That's it, she's a nuisance.' I been meaning to throw that clock into the river for I don't know how long. Unless you are used to that clock you just can't sleep where she is. 'Rattelty bang!' she goes just whenever she takes a notion, like a dish-pan falling downstairs, all times of the night. So I just thought, as long as I was going out anyway, 'Now's a good time to get rid of the old nuisance!'â âMama _would_ steal the clock,â said the boy. âOh, you mustn't say that!â said Peter. âYou come here and eat these two nice eggs. I hope, ma'am, you don't think I had any such notion as that. When I have visitors they can steal everything in the boat, and welcome. I mean--â âI know what you mean,â said the woman. âYou 're the white kind.â âI'm glad you look at it that way,â said Peter. âThe boy, he don't understand such things, he's so young yet. Maybe you'd feel better if I propped you up with the pillow a little better. I'll lay this extry blanket on the foot of the bunk here in case it should get cold during the night. You look nice and warm now.â âI'm burning up,â said the woman. âI judge you've got a slight fever,â said Peter. âI often get them when I get overtook by the rain when I'm out for a stroll.â âI'll be all right if I can lie here for an hour or so,â said the woman listlessly. âThen Buddy and me will get on. Is it far to town?â âNow, you and that boy ain't going another step to-night,â said Peter firmly. âYou 're going to stay right here. You won't discommode me a bit for I've made arrangements to sleep elsewhere, like I often do.â He gave the woman the egg in his tin cup, and while she ate he put his trot-lines outside on the small forward deck so the boy might get in no more trouble with the hooks. Then he removed the shells from his shotgun, put the remaining eggs and bread and butter and chicken in his tin box, and pinned his coat collar. âI'm going up to the place I arranged to sleep at, now,â he said, âand I hope you'll find everything comfortable and nice. There's more wood there by the stove, and before I come in in the morning I'll knock on the door, so I guess maybe you'd better take off as many
{'title': 'The Jack-Knife Man by Ellis Parker Butler', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}