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About The Loup City northwestern. (Loup City, Neb.) 189?-1917 | View Entire Issue (Oct. 29, 1908)
“If They Ain’t Craiy, What Made 'Em Come tc Live at Nate Scudder's?” By Joseph C. 1-in.coIn s_Aitkob of "Cap'n Lri" T.rtnirs of the Tior' g Ccpyp/Gf/r /sc 7 AS Bapacc^p Company o LLUSTRaTIO\’3 EY T.D. PtELVJLL SYNOPSIS. Mr. Solomon Pratt began comical nar ration of story, introducing well-to-do Nathan S-udder of his town, and Kdward Van Brunt and Martin Hartley, two rich New Yorkers seeking rest. Because of latter pair's lavish expenditure of mime.. Prru's tirst Impression was connected with Innatie-s. CHAPTER I.—Continued. We cut across Sears' meadow, and the frogs was beginning to squeal and the crickets to chirp. To me them earl} summer noises are as cheerful and restful as a teakettle singing or a cat purring. But, all at once. Hart ley, the sick one, stopped and held up his hand. ‘Heavens. Van!" he says. "It sounds like the ticker," and he said it so prayerful and sad. Van Brunt shook his head. “Don't it?" says he. “I can see the tape run ning off that tree. Green Apples Pre ferred, 106 bid and S asked.' Is there no escape?” he,says. I left ’em on the hill by the Baptist burying ground. I watched ’em walk ing down the road, big and straight and handsome, and I pitied 'em from the bottom of my heart. “Sol Pratt," says I to myself, "here's a lesson for you. You're old and home ly and your hank account is nothing, minus a good deal, divided by naught; but don't you never complain again. S’pose you was good-looking and rich, but out of your head, like them two poor young chaps. Dear! dear!” And I thought about ’em and pitied 'em all that evening, while I was fry ing my herrings for supper. I hope I'll get credit soinewheres for all that pity. CHAPTER II. The Man. I see 'em pretty often during the nest week. They used to loaf down to the landing of a morning, smoking cigars, and with their hands in their pockets. Crazy or not, there was a something about 'em that kind of got me; I own up I begun to like 'em. in spite of their tophamper being out of gear. As a general run I don't hanker for the average city boarder. He runs too much to yachting clothes and patronizing. Neither the clothes nor the airs set well; kind of look like they was second-hand and made over for him by the folks at home. When one of that kind is out sailing with me and begins to lord it and show off afore the girls the Dora Bassett *s pretty apt to ship some spray over the bow. A couple of gallons of salt water sliced off a wave top and poured down the neck of one of them feliers iB the best reducer 1 know of; shrinks his importance like 'twas a flannel shirt. But Nate Scudder's private patients wa n t that kind. Not that they wa'n't dressed. Land sakesl I don't s'pose they wore the same vests two days running. But they looked like they was used to their clothes, not as if they'd just been introduced and didn't feel to home in ’em. And they didn't patronize none to speak of; called me “Skipper” and “Sol” just as sociable as could be. And as for the girls, they never looked twice at any of the hotel ones. Tnem two skittish females that I took over to Trumet U6ed to get in their way and beg pardon and giggle, hoisting flirtation signals, so to speak, but Van Brunt and Hartley wouldn’t even come up into the wind; just kept on their course like they wras carrying the mail. ’Twas these two females that first named ’em “The Heavenly Twins;” ’twas shortened later to "The Heavenlies.” Every time I took the Heavenlies on a cruise the more certain I was that they were loons—harmless ant^ good natured, of course, but loons just the same. Most generally they carried a book along with 'em and read it out loud to each other. They'd read a spell and then step and break out with: “By Jove! that’s so. He's right, isn't he?" You'd think that book was a human almost, the way they went on about it. I've heard a minister do the same way over the Scriptures; but this wa n t the Bible; the name of it was “The Natural Life." 1 borrowed i once to look at, but ’twas all foolish ness to me; telling about money being a cuss, and such rot. I've been eussea considerable sence I first went to sea, but not by money—no, sir! But Van Brunt would read three ox four fathom of rubbish out of “The Natural," and then heave to and say: “Odd we didn't think of that afore, Martin. It doesn't count for much, does it? Well, we're through with it now, thank God! Look at that sun set. Have a smoke, skipper?” And then he'd pass over a cigar that had cost as much as ten cusses a box, if I'm any judge of tobacco. One night, just as we were coming into port. Van sa%s to me: “Sol,” he says. “We may want you and the boat to-morrow. My man'll let you know in the morning. Mean while just dodge the nautical bunch at the hotel, will you?” I was a good deal shook up. I'd al most forgot that keeper. “Man?” says I. “Oh, yes. yes! I see. 1 Is he here now?” “No; coming to-night, I believe. By by. Just consider yourself engaged till you hear from us.” x uc; «aincu uu auu icu uic LlilliK* ing. Thinks I: “It's a fair bet that that keeper don't let you two go boat ing by yourselves again.” So the next day about half-past nine, when I'd just about decided to let some of the boarders have the Dora Bassett, I looked up from my fish lines and here was a feller coming dow-n the wharf. He was a kind of an exbihit for Wellmouth. as you might say. Least ways he was bran-new for me. Six foot two over all, I should judge, and about two foot in the beam. Cast a shadow like a rake handle. Dressed up and precise, and prim as a Sunday school superintendent. He looked sort of gospelly, too. with his smooth upper lip and turned-down mouth, and little two-for-a-eent side whiskers at half mast on his cheeks. But his eyes was fishy. Thinks 1: “No sir-eel I don't want to subscribe to no Temperance Advocate, nor buy 'The Life of Moses and the Ten Commandments,’ nor I don't want to have my tintype took neither.” He stook still by the stringpiece of the wharf and looked me over, kind of grand but wrell-meaning, same as the prince of Wales might lock at a hoptoad. "’Elio,” says he. "Hello, yourself," says I. keeping on with my woi* “Mr. Edward 'as ordered the boat for 'alf past 11.” he says. . “I want to know,” says I. “How’ll he have it—frit 1?” "Beg pardon?” says he. “You're welcome,” says I. I can stand bc-'ng patronized, sometimes, if I'm paid for it, but I didn’t see this critter developing no cash symptoms. "My good man." he says; “you rin-.'t understand me. I said that Mr Li ward 'ad ordered the boat alf past 11.” “I know you dll. And I asked if he'd have it fried.” He seemed to b • urnintr this over in his mind. Anu >.ith every turn he got more muddled. I’d cbnciuded bv this time that he wa’n’t a book agent. What he was though I couldn’t make out nor I didn't much care. He riled me. this feller did. “Lock ’ere," says he, after a minute. “Is your name Pratt?’’ “Yup," I says. “On Thursdays it is." “Thursdays?” says he. “Thursdays? What—what is it on Fridays?” “Mister Pratt,” says I, pretty aver age brisk. He seemed to be more muddled than ever. He looked back towards the hotel and then at me again. I had a notion he was going to sing out for help. “My man,” he says, again. “My man—” “Humphi'' I interrupted. ‘ Well, if I’m your man whose man are you?" And, by time! he seemed to under stand that’! "I'm Mr. Edward Van Brunt’s man," says he, "and Mr. Ed ward ’as ordered the boat for alf—” And then I begun to understand—or thought I did. ’Twas the keeper. Well, in some ways he looked his job. ”0—oh!” says I. ’ All right. Yes. yes. I heard you was coming, Mr.— Mr.—” "Opper," says he: “James ’Opper.” “Proud to know you. Mr. Opper,” says I, which was a lie. I'm airaid. “Not Hopper,” he says. "Qpper.” “Sure! Opper’s what I said,” says I. He got red ia the face. "’Opper," he says. “Haiteh—o-p-p- -r." “Oh, Hopper!” I says. “Of course. ’Opper,” he says. I felt as if I’d been sailing a race and had made a lap and got back to the starting buoy. "All right," says I. “What’s an H or two between friends? How's your patients, Mr. Opper Hopper?” “Look ’ere. my fine feller," he says. "You're too fresh. For a 'a-penny I'd come down and put a 'end on you." And right then I give up the idea that he was a retired parson. Parsons don't talk like that. “You would?" says I. “Well, you go on putting ’’cads' on the poor lunatics you have to take care of and don't try any of your asylum games with me. Tvvould be safer for you and wouldn't interfere with my work. What do you want?” “I'm Mr. Edward Van Brunt's va'dy —” he says—" is man-servant; and 'e 'as ordered you to—" “His man-servant!” I sung out. set ling up straight. "Of course. Didn't 1 says so? 11 is vally; an—” Well, I'd made a mistake. 1 judged. If he was a servant he couldn't be the keeper. I ca'lated twas best to be a little more sociable. Besides, I was curious. “Humph!" says I. "I guess I d ought to beg your pardon. Mr. Opper—" "Opper!" he fairly hollered it. "All right. Never mind. Come on aboard and let's talk it over." So aboard he come, making a land lubber's job of it, and come to anchor on the bench in the cockpit, setting up as stiff and straight as if he'd swal lowed a marlin-spike. Then we com menced to talk, me dropping a ques tion every once in awhile, and him dropping h's like he was feeding 'em to the hens. “What kind of a servant did you say you was?” says I, breaking the ice. "A vally. Mr. Edward's vally." “Vally, hey?" says 1. "Vally! Hum! I want to know!” I guess he see I was out of sound ings, so he condescends to do some spelling for me. “V-a-l-e-t," says he. “Vally.” “Oh!” says I. “A vallet. Yes, yes; I see.” I knew what a vallet was—I'd read about 'em in the papers—but this fel ler's calling it a “vally" put me off the course. He was nothing but a for eigner. though, so 1 made allowances. I give him a cigar that I bought at the grocery store on the way down, and we lit up. Then he commenced to tell about himself and how he used to work for a lord once over in England. According to his tell England was next door to Paradise and the United States a little worse than the other place. “Gawd forsaken" was the best word he had for Yankeeland. "I suppose you'll quit when the keeper comes,” says I. "Keeper?” says he. “Wat keeper?" “Why, the feller from the asylum. How long has your boss and his mess mate been crazy?” I asks. “Crazy?" he says. "Crazy? Wat do you mean?” “Look here,” says I. “Y'ou tell me straight. Ain't Van Brunt and Hartley out of their heads?” “Out of their 'eads? ’Eavens, no!” He was so upset that he couldn’t hard ly speak for a minute. Then he com menced to tell about the Heavenlies, and ’twa'n't long afore I begun to see that 'twas Nate Scudder and me that needed a keeper; we was the biggest loons in the crowd. Seems that the Twins was rich New Yorkers—the richest and high tonedest kind. Both of 'em had money by the bucket and more being left to 'em while you wait. They lived on some avenue with a number to it, and they done business in the “Street,”! meaning that they dickered in bonds : and such things, I gathered. Also I ! gathered they didn't have to work overtime. "But, if they ain't crazy what made 1 'em come down here to live,” says j I, “at Nate Scudder's?” Well, that was a kind of poser, even for Mr. James Opper Hopper Know-it All. He commenced to tell about so ciety and pink teas—I guess ’ twas pink; might have been sky-blue though—and races and opera parties and stocks, and "strenuous life" and the land knows what. It seemed to simmer down finally to that book ‘‘The Natural Life." Seems there was a kind of craze around New York and the cities, stirred up by that book, to get clear of luxury and comfort and good times and so cn, and get to living like poor folks. Living the "Natural Life," the valet called it. "So?” says I, thinking of how I had to scratch to keep body and soul together. "I've been right in style all my days and didn't know it. Hum! going cranberrying and fishing and damming and taking gangs of summer folks out on seasick parties is the proper thing, hey? And your boss and his chum want to live simple?" Yes, he said they wanted to live real simple. "Well,” says I, "if Huldy Ann Scud dor cooks for 'em that's the way they'll live.” He went on with another rigmarole about how the Heavenlies had lived in New York. Cutting out everything about himself and that British lord— which was two-thirds of the tarn— there was some stuff about a girl named Page that interested me. Seems she was the real thing in society, too. Had money and good looks and fine clothes—all the strenuous nuisances. And she was engaged to Hartley once, hut they had a row or something and broke it off. And now she was en gaged to Van Brum. “But, see here," I says, puzzled. “If she's engaged to Van why ain't he to home courting her instead of dissipat ing on baked beans and thin feather beds over to Scudder's? Why ain’t he to home in New York getting ready to be married?” Well, the marriage, so James said, was to be arranged later. Near as I could find out Van and this Agnes Page had mighty little to do with the marrying. 'Twas their folks that was fixing that. up. Agnes herself had gone to Europe with her nia. When she was to home she was great on charity. She done settlement work, whatever that is, and her one idea in life was to feed ice cream to children that hankered for fishballs and brown bread. This we n t exactly the way Lord James give it out, but ’twas about the sense of it. "Yes, yes,” says i. "But how does Hartley like chumming around with the feller that's going to marry his old girl?” It appeared that that was al! right. Hartley and Van wa; chums; loved each other like brothers—or better. Little thing like a girl or two didn't count Hartley was kind of used up and blue and down on his luck and suffering from the Natural Life dis ease; he wanted to cut for simplicity and Nature So Van. havin’ a touch of the Natural himself, com along to keep him company. "But this Page girl?" says I. "How does she feel on the Natural Life Ques tion ?” "Oh. -she believes in it too," says his lordship "Only she's more inter ested in 'er charity and ‘elping the poor and heducating 'em," says he. 1 fetched a long breath. “Well. Mr. Opper—Hopper, I mean—" I says, "you can say what you want to, but 1 11 still hang on to my first notion. I think the whole crew is stark, raving crazy.” I’d noticed that he hadn't been pull ing at my cigar much—a good five cent Bluebell cigar twas, too. Now he put it down, kind of like 'twas loaded. “My good feller,” he says. "Would you mind if I tried one of me own weeds? Ave one yourself,” says he. I took the cigar he handed me It was one of Van Brunt’s particular brand. "Humph!" thinks I. "your bosses mav be simpletons for the love of it. Brother .lames, but not you. No. sir-ee! You're in it for the value of the man ifest.” In another half hour or so the Heavenly Twins showed up alongside. And then ’twould have done you good to see that valet's back get limber. He bowed and scraped and “Sirred” till you couldn't rest. They spoke to him like he was a dog and he skipped around with his tail between his legs like he was one—a yellow one, at that. When we'd passed the point out comes that everlasting book and the Twins got at It. "Van,” says Martin Hartley, setting up and taking notice; "the Natural Life for mine. 1 envy the lucky devils who’ve had it all their lives.” 'Twa'n’t none of my affairs, but I shoved my oar in here—couldn't help it. “You fellers ain't getting the real article—not yet," says I. “There's a hotel over back’ of the village where the boarders get the ginuine simple life—no frills included." I says. They was interested right off. "Where's that, skipper?” says Van Brunt. “What's its name?” “Well," se.ys I, “folks round here call it the poorheuse.” Then they bo;h lau bed. Good nice fellers, as I said af , even if they was crazy. (TO BE CON” :.UED.) Compliment From The Heart Longfellow Appreciated the Praise of English Workingman. When Longfellow was In London. Queen Victoria sent for him to ccme and see her at the palace He went, and just as he was seafi ; himself in the w iiing rrrh a.ter the interview, r man in working clothes appeared, uat in hand, at the coach window. “Please sir, yer honor," said he, ‘ an' are you Mr. Longfellow?" “I am Mr. Longfellow," said the poet. “An’ did you write the ‘Psalm of Life?”' he risked. “I wror* the 'Psalm of Life,’ ” re nlied th< uoeL "An' yer honor, would you be will ing to take a working man by the hand?” Mr. Longfellow gave the honest Englishman a hearty handshake. Later, in speaking of the incident, he said: "I never in my life received a com pliment which gave me more satisfac tion.” The "Psalm of Life” has been trans lated into 15 different languages. Milk Bottle Caps. The paper caps used on m'lk bottles are made at the rate of 600.000 a day, and one man operates five machines. 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