The Bishop of Cottontown: A Story of the Southern Cotton Mills
I'd lost ever' cent!"
"Exactly, Bishop, an' I did--at ten to one--think of the odds! Ten to
one, mighty nigh as great as wus ag'in David."
"An' you won, of course, Archie B., you won in a walk?" said the old
man breathlessly. "God was fur you an' the monkey."
Archie B. smiled triumphantly and pulled out his handful of gold. The
old man sat down on a log, dazed.
"Archie B., sho'ly, sho'ly, not all that? An' licked the dorg, an'
that gang, an' cleaned 'em up?"
Archie B. told him the story with all the quaint histrionic talent of
his exuberant nature.
The Bishop sat and laughed till the tears came.
"An' Bonaparte went down the road with the monkey holt his tail--the
champion dorg--an' you won all that?"
"All fur charity, Bishop, except, you know, part fur keeps as a
kinder nes' egg."
"Of co-u-r-se--Archie B., of--course, no harm in the
worl'--if--if--my son--_if you carry out your original ideas_, or
promise, ruther; it won't work if you go back on yo' promise to God.
'God moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform,'" added the
Bishop solemnly.
Archie B. slipped fifty of his dollars into the old man's hands.
"Do you know, Archie B., I prayed for this las' night? Now you tell
me God don't answer prayers?"
He was silent, touched. Seldom before had a prayer of his been
answered so directly.
"Fur charity, Archie B., fur charity. I'll take it, an' little you
know what this may mean."
Archie B. was silent. So far so good, but it was plain from his still
thoughtful looks that he had only half won out yet. He had heard the
old man speak, and there had been a huskiness about his voice.
"Now there is paw, Bishop--you know he ain't jes like you--he don't
see so far. He might not understan' it. Would you mind jes' droppin'
him a line, you know? I'll take it to him--in case he looks at the
thing differently, you know, fur whut you write will go a long way
with him."
The old man smiled: "Of course, Archie B.--he must understan' it. Of
course, it 'ud never do to have him spile as good a thing as
that--an' fur charity, all fur the Lord--"
"An' why I didn't go to school, helpin' you all in the woods," put in
Archie B.
"Of course, Archie B., why of course, my son; I'll fix it right."
And he scribbled a few lines on the fly leaf of his note book for
Archie B. to take home:
"God bless you, my son, good-night."
Archie B. struck out across the fields jingling his remaining gold
and whistling. At home it was as he expected. Patsy met him at the
gate. One look into her expectant face showed him that she was
delighted at the prospect of his punishment. It was her hope
deferred, now long unfulfilled. He had always gotten out before, but
now--
"Walk in, Mister Gambler, Mr. Hookey--walk in--paw is waitin' fur
you," she said, smirking.
The Deacon stood in the door, silent, grim, determined. In his hand
were well-seasoned hickories. By him stood his wife more silent, more
grim, more determined.
"Pull off yo' coat, Archie B.," said the Deacon, "I'm gwinter lick
you fur gamblin'."
"Pull off yo' coat, Archie B.," said his mother, "I'm goin' to lick
you fur playin' hookey."
"Pull it off, Archie B.," said his sister bossily, "I'm goin' to
stan' by an' see."
Archie B. pulled off his coat deliberately.
"That's all right," he said, "Many a man has been licked befo' fur
bein' on the Lord's side."
"You mean to tell me, Archie B. Butts, you bet on a dorg fight sho'
nuff," said his father, nervously handling his hickories.
"An' played hookey?" chimed in his mother.
"Tell it, Archie B., tell the truth an' shame the devil," mocked
Patsy.
"Yes, I done all that--fur charity," he said boldly, and with a
victorious ring in his voice.
"Did you put up that ten dollars yo' Granny lef' you?" screamed his
mother.
"Did you dare, Archie B.," said Patsy.
His father paled at the thought of it: "An' lost it, Archie B., lost
it, my son. Oh, I mus' teach you how sinful it is to gamble."
Archie B. replied by running his hand deep down into his pocket and
bringing up a handful of gold--five eagles!
His father dropped the switches and stared. His mother sat down
suddenly in a chair and Patsy reached out, took it and counted it
deliberately:--
"One--two--three--fo'--five--an' all gold--my gracious, Maw!"
"That's jes' ha'f of it," said Archie B. indifferently. "I gave the
old Bishop five of 'em--fur--charity. Here's his note."
The Deacon read it and rubbed his chin thoughtfully: "That's a
different thing," he said after a while. "Entirely different
proposition, my son."
"Yes, it 'pears to be," said his mother counting the gold again.
"We'll jes' keep three of 'em, Archie B. They'll come in handy this
winter."
"Put on yo' coat, my son," said the Deacon gently.
"Patsy, fetch him in the hot waffles an' syrup--the lad 'pears to be
a leetle tired," said his mother.
"How many whippings did you git, Archie B.?" whispered his brother as
Archie B., after entertaining the family for an hour, all about the
great fight, crawled into bed: "I got three," went on Ozzie B.
"Triggers fust, then paw, then maw."
"None," said Archie B., as he put his two pieces of gold under his
pillow.
"I can't see why that was," wailed Ozzie B. "I done nothin'
an'--an'--got all--all--the--lickin'!"
"You jes' reaped my whirlwind," sneered his brother--"All fools do!"
But later he felt so sorry for poor Ozzie B. because he could not lie
on his back at all, that he gave him one of his beautiful coins to go
to sleep.
CHAPTER XXVI
BEN BUTLER'S LAST RACE
It was the last afternoon of the fair, and the great race was to come
off at three o'clock.
There is nothing so typical as a fair in the Tennessee Valley. It is
the one time in the year when everybody meets everybody else. Besides
being the harvest time of crops, of friendships, of happy interchange
of thought and feeling, it is also the harvest time of perfected
horseflesh.
The forenoon had been given to social intercourse, the display of
livestock, the exhibits of deft women fingers, of housewife skill, of
the tradesman, of the merchant, of cotton--cotton, in every form and
shape.
At noon, under the trees, lunch had been spread--a bountiful lunch,
spreading as it did from the soft grass of one tree to that of
another--as family after family spread their linen--an almost
unbroken line of fried chicken, flanked with pickles and salad, and
all the rich profusion of the country wife's pantry.
And now, after lunch, the grand stand had been quickly filled, for
the fame of the great race had spread up and down the valley, and the
valley dearly loved a horse-race.
Five hundred dollars was considered a large purse, but this race was
three thousand!
Three thousand! It would buy a farm. It would buy thirty mules, and
twice that many steers. It would make a family independent for life.
And to-day it was given to see which one, of three rich men, owned
the best horse.
No wonder that everybody for miles around was there.
Sturdy farmers with fat daughters, jaded wives, and lusty sons who
stepped awkwardly on everything on the promenade, and in trying to
get off stepped on themselves. They went about, with broad, strong,
stooping shoulders, and short coats that sagged in the middle,
dropping under-jaws, and eyes that were kindly and shrewd.
The town people were better dressed and fed than the country people,
and but only half way in fashion between the city and country, yet
knowing it not.
The infield around the judges' stand, and in front of the
grand-stand, was thronged with surreys and buggies, and filled with
ladies and their beaux. A ripple of excitement had gone up when
Richard Travis drove up in a tally-ho. It was filled with gay gowns
and alive with merriment and laughter, and though Alice Westmore was
supposed to be on the driver's box with the owner, she was not there.
Tennesseans were there in force to back Flecker's gelding--Trumps,
and they played freely and made much noise. Col. Troup's
mare--Trombine--had her partisans who were also vociferous. But
Travis's entry, Lizzette, was a favorite, and, when he appeared on
the track to warm up, the valley shouted itself hoarse.
Then Flecker shot out of the draw-gate and spun merrily around the
track, and Col. Troup joined him with Trombine, and the audience
watched the three trotters warm up and shouted or applauded each as
it spun past the grand-stand.
Then the starting-judge held up a silk bag in the center of the wire.
It held three thousand dollars in gold, and it swung around and then
settled, to a shining, shimmering silken sack, swaying the wire as it
flashed in the sun.
The starting-judge clanged his bell, but the drivers, being
gentlemen, were heedless of rules and drove on around still warming
up.
The starting-judge was about to clang again--this time more
positively--when there appeared at the draw-gate a new comer, the
sight of whose horse and appointments set the grand-stand into a wild
roar of mingled laughter and applause.
As he drove demurely on the track, he lifted quaintly and stiffly his
old hat and smiled.
He was followed by the village blacksmith, whose very looks told that
they meant business and were out for blood. The audience did not like
the looks of this blacksmith--he was too stern for the fun they were
having. But they recognized the shambling creature who followed him
as Bud Billings, and they shouted with laughter when they saw he had
a sponge and bucket!
"Bud Billings a swipe!"
Cottontown wanted to laugh, but it was too tired. It merely grinned
and nudged one another. For Travis had given a half holiday and all
Cottontown was there.
The old man's outfit brought out the greatest laughter. The cart was
a big cheap thing, new and brightly repainted, and it rattled
frightfully. The harness was a combination--the saddle was made of
soft sheep skin, the wool next to the horse, as were also the
head-stall of the bridle, the breast-strap and the breeching. The
rest of it was undressed leather, and the old man had evidently made
it himself.
But Ben Butler--never had he looked so fine. Blind, cat-hammed and
pacing along,--but his sides were slick and hard, his quarters
rubber.
The old man had not been training him on the sandy stretches of Sand
Mountain for nothing.
A man with half an eye could have seen it, but the funny people in
the grand-stand saw only the harness, and the blind sunken eyes of
the old horse. So they shouted and cat-called and jeered. The outfit
ambled up to the starting judge, and the old driver handed him fifty
dollars.
The starter laughed as he recovered himself, and winking at the
others, asked:
"What's this for, old man?"
"Oh, jes' thought I'd j'ine in--" smiling.
"Why, you can't do it. What's your authority?"
The Bishop ran his hand in his pocket, while Bud held Ben Butler's
head and kept saying with comical seriousness: "Whoa--whoa, sah!"
Pending it all, and seeing that more talk was coming, Ben Butler
promptly went to sleep. Finally the old man brought out a faded
poster. It was Travis's challenge and conditions.
"Jes' read it," said the old driver, "an' see if I ain't under the
conditions."
The starting judge read: "_Open to the Tennessee Valley--trot or
pace. Parties entering, other than the match makers, to pay fifty
dollars at the wire._"
"Phew!" said the starting judge, as he scratched his head. Then he
stroked his chin and re-read the conditions, looking humorously down
over his glasses at the queer combination before him.
The audience took it in and began to shout: "Let him in! Let him in!
It's fair!"
But others felt outraged and shouted back: "No--put him out! Put him
out!"