Thanks to the lawyer, our names had been scarcely mentioned in the papers at the time of my father's death.No one in the village knew our identity or our story.And, because I knew that Mother would worry if she were told, I kept from her the fact that our little income was but half of what it had been.Our wants were few, and if my clothes were no longer made by the best tailors, if they were ready-made and out-of-date and lacked pressing, they were whole, at all events, because Dorinda was a tip-top mender.In fact, I had forgotten they were out-of-date until the sight of the immaculately garbed young chap in the automobile brought the comparison between us to my mind.
But now, as I sat on the wash-bench, thinking of all this, I looked down at my baggy trousers and faded waistcoat with disgust.One of the surest signs of the loss of self-respect is a disregard of one's personal appearance.I looked like a hayseed--not the independent countryman who wears old clothes on week days from choice and is proudly conscious of a Sunday suit in the closet--but that other variety, the post-office and billiard-room idler who has reached the point of utter indifference, is too shiftless to care.
Captain Jed was not so far wrong, after all--Lute Rogers and I were birds of a feather in more ways than one.
No wonder that girl in the auto had looked at me as if I were something too contemptible for notice.Yet I hated her for that look.I had behaved like a boor, of course.Because I was a failure, a country loafer with no prospect of ever being anything else, because I could not ride in automobiles and others could--these were no good reasons for insulting strangers more fortunate than I.Yet I did hate that girl.Just then I hated all creation, especially that portion of it which amounted to anything.
I took the letter from my pocket and read it again."I should like to see you...on a matter of business." What business could "Yours truly, James W.Colton" have with me? And Captain Jed also had talked business.I supposed that I had given up business long ago and for good; now, all at once, it seemed to be hunting me.
Well, all the hunting should be on its side.
At another time I might have treated the great Colton's "summons to court" as a joke.I might, like Mother, have regarded the curtness of the command and its general tone of taking my prompt obedience for granted as an expression of the Wall Street magnate's habit of mind, and nothing more.He was used to having people jump when he snapped his fingers.But now it made me angry.I sympathized with Dean and Alvin Baker.The possession of money did not necessarily imply omnipotence.This was Cape Cod, not New York.His Majesty might, as Captain Jed put it, have blown his Imperial nose, but I, for one, wouldn't "lay in a supply of handkerchiefs"--not yet.
I heard a rustle in the bushes and, turning my head, saw Lute coming along the path.He was walking fast--fast for him, that is--and seemed to be excited.His excitement, however, did not cause him to forget prudence.He looked carefully about to be sure his wife was not in sight, before he spoke.
"Dorindy ain't been here sence I've been gone, has she?" was his first question.
"I guess not," said I."She has been in the house since I got back.But I don't know how long you've been gone.""Only a few minutes.I--I just stepped over 'cross the Lane for a jiffy, that's all.Say, by time; them Coltons must have money!""That's a habit of millionaires, I believe.""Hey? What do you mean by that? If they didn't have money they couldn't be millionaires, could they? How'd you like to be a millionaire, Ros?""I don't know.I never tried."
"By time! I'D like to try a spell.I've been over lookin' 'round their place.You never see such a place! Why, their front doorstep's big as this yard, pretty nigh.""Does it have to be raked?" I asked.
"Raked! Whoever heard of rakin' a doorstep?""Give it up! But it does seem to me that I have heard of raking a yard.I think Dorinda mentioned that, didn't she?"Lute looked at me: then he hurried over and picked up the rake which was lying near the barn, a pile--a very small pile--of chips and leaves beside it.
"When did she mention it?" he asked.
"A week ago, I think, was the first time.She has referred to it occasionally since.She was mentioning it to you when I went up town this morning.I heard her."Lute looked relieved."Oh, THEN!" he said."I thought you meant lately.Well, I'm rakin' it, ain't I? Say, Ros," he added, eagerly, "did you go to the post-office when you was uptown? Was there a letter there for you?""What makes you think there was?"
"Asa Peters' boy, the bow-legged one, told me.The chauffeur, the feller that pilots the automobiles, asked him where the post-office was and he see the address on the envelope.He said the letter was for you.I told him he was lyin'--""What in the world did you tell him that for?" I interrupted.Ihad known Lute a long time, but he sometimes surprised me, even yet.
"'Cause he is, nine times out of ten," replied Lute, promptly.
"You never see such a young-one for dodgin' the truth.Why, one time he told his grandmother, Asa's ma, I mean, that--""What did he say about the letter?"
"Said 'twas for you.And the chauffeur said Mr.Colton told him to mail it right off.'Twan't for you, was it, Ros?""Yes."
"It WAS! Well, by time! What did a man like Mr.Colton write to you about?"Among his other lackings Lute was conspicuously short of tact.
