The Second Christmas Megapack. Гарриет Бичер-Стоу
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never figured very prominently in his scheme of life. About the only Christmases that he recalled with any pleasure were those that he had spent in prison, and those were marked only by Christmas dinners varying with the generosity of a series of wardens.
But Shaver was entitled to all the joys of Christmas, and The Hopper had no desire to deprive him of them.
“Keep a-larfin’, Shaver, keep a-larfin’,” said the Hopper. “Ole Hop ain’t a-goin’ to hurt ye!”
The Hopper, feeling his way cautiously round the fringes of New Haven, arrived presently at Happy Hill Farm, where he ran the car in among the chicken sheds behind the cottage and carefully extinguished the lights.
“Now, Shaver, out ye come!”
Whereupon Shaver obediently jumped into his arms.
III.
The Hopper knocked twice at the back door, waited an instant, and knocked again. As he completed the signal the door was opened guardedly. A man and woman surveyed him in hostile silence as he pushed past them, kicked the door shut, and deposited the blinking child on the kitchen table. Humpy, the one-eyed, jumped to the windows and jammed the green shades close into the frames. The woman scowlingly waited for the head of the house to explain himself, and this, with the perversity of one who knows the dramatic value of suspense, he was in no haste to do.
“Well,” Mary questioned sharply. “What ye got there, Bill?”
The Hopper was regarding Shaver with a grin of benevolent satisfaction. The youngster had seized a bottle of catsup and was making heroic efforts to raise it to his mouth, and the Hopper was intensely tickled by Shaver’s efforts to swallow the bottle. Mrs. Stevens, alias Weeping Mary, was not amused, and her husband’s enjoyment of the child’s antics irritated her.
“Come out with ut, Bill!” she commanded, seizing the bottle. “What ye been doin’?”
Shaver’s big blue eyes expressed surprise and displeasure at being deprived of his plaything, but he recovered quickly and reached for a plate with which he began thumping the table.
“Out with ut, Hop!” snapped Humpy nervously. “Nothin’ wuz said about kidnappin’, an’ I don’t stand for ut!”
“When I heard the machine comin’ in the yard I knowed somethin’ was wrong an’ I guess it couldn’t be no worse,” added Mary, beginning to cry. “You hadn’t no right to do ut, Bill. Hookin’ a buzz-buzz an’ a kid an’ when we wuz playin’ the white card! You ought t’ ’a’ told me, Bill, what ye went to town fer, an’ it bein’ Christmas, an’ all.”
That he should have chosen for his fall the Christmas season of all times was reprehensible, a fact which Mary and Humpy impressed upon him in the strongest terms. The Hopper was fully aware of the inopportuneness of his transgressions, but not to the point of encouraging his wife to abuse him.
As he clumsily tried to unfasten Shaver’s hood, Mary pushed him aside and with shaking fingers removed the child’s wraps. Shaver’s cheeks were rosy from his drive through the cold; he was a plump, healthy little shaver and The Hopper viewed him with intense pride. Mary held the hood and coat to the light and inspected them with a sophisticated eye. They were of excellent quality and workmanship, and she shook her head and sighed deeply as she placed them carefully on a chair.
“It ain’t on the square, Hop,” protested Humpy, whose lone eye expressed the most poignant sorrow at The Hopper’s derelictions. Humpy was tall and lean, with a thin, many-lined face. He was an ill-favored person at best, and his habit of turning his head constantly as though to compel his single eye to perform double service gave one an impression of restless watchfulness.
“Cute little Shaver, ain’t ’e? Give Shaver somethin’ to eat, Mary. I guess milk’ll be the right ticket considerin’ th’ size of ’im. How ole you make ’im? Not more’n three, I reckon?”
“Two. He ain’t more’n two, that kid.”
“A nice little feller; you’re a cute un, ain’t ye, Shaver?”
Shaver nodded his head solemnly. Having wearied of playing with the plate he gravely inspected the trio; found something amusing in Humpy’s bizarre countenance and laughed merrily. Finding no response to his friendly overtures he appealed to Mary.
“Me wants me’s paw-widge,” he announced.
“Porridge,” interpreted Humpy with the air of one whose superior breeding makes him the proper arbiter of the speech of children of high social station. Whereupon Shaver appreciatively poked his forefinger into Humpy’s surviving optic.
“I’ll see what I got,” muttered Mary. “What ye used t’ eatin’ for supper, honey?”
The “honey” was a concession, and The Hopper, who was giving Shaver his watch to play with, bent a commendatory glance upon his spouse.
“Go on an’ tell us what ye done,” said Mary, doggedly busying herself about the stove.
The Hopper drew a chair to the table to be within reach of Shaver and related succinctly his day’s adventures.
“A dip!” moaned Mary as he described the seizure of the purse in the subway.
“You hadn’t no right to do ut, Hop!” bleated Humpy, who had tipped his chair against the wall and was sucking a cold pipe. And then, professional curiosity overmastering his shocked conscience, he added: “What’d she measure, Hop?”
The Hopper grinned.
“Flubbed! Nothin’ but papers,” he confessed ruefully.
Mary and Humpy expressed their indignation and contempt in unequivocal terms, which they repeated after he told of the suspected “bull” whose presence on the local had so alarmed him. A frank description of his flight and of his seizure of the roadster only added to their bitterness.
Humpy rose and paced the floor with the quick, short stride of men habituated to narrow spaces. The Hopper watched the telltale step so disagreeably reminiscent of evil times and shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“Set down, Hump; ye make me nervous. I got thinkin’ to do.”
“Ye’d better be quick about doin’ ut!” Humpy snorted with an oath.
“Cut the cussin’!” The Hopper admonished sharply. Since his retirement to private life he had sought diligently to free his speech of profanity and thieves’ slang, as not only unbecoming in a respectable chicken farmer, but likely to arouse suspicions as to his origin and previous condition of servitude. “Can’t ye see Shaver ain’t use to ut? Shaver’s a little gent; he’s a reg’ler little juke; that’s wot Shaver is.”
“The more ’way up he is the worse fer us,” whimpered Humpy. “It’s kidnappin’, that’s wot ut is!”
“That’s wot it ain’t,” declared The Hopper, averting a calamity to his watch, which Shaver was swinging by its chain. “He was took by accident I tell ye! I’m goin’ to take Shaver back to his ma—ain’t I, Shaver?”
“Take ’im back!” echoed Mary.
Humpy crumpled up in his chair at this new evidence of The Hopper’s insanity.
“I’m goin’ to make a Chris’mas present o’ Shaver to his ma,” reaffirmed The Hopper, pinching the nearer ruddy cheek of the merry, contented guest.
Shaver kicked The Hopper in the stomach and emitted a chortle expressive of unshakable confidence in The Hopper’s ability to restore him to his lawful owners. This confidence was not, however, manifested toward Mary, who had prepared with care the only cereal her pantry afforded, and now approached Shaver, bowl and spoon in hand. Shaver, taken by surprise, inspected his supper with disdain and spurned it with a vigor that sent the spoon rattling across the floor.
“Me wants me’s paw-widge bowl! Me wants me’s own paw-widge bowl!” he screamed.