The strawberry festival and the "tempest" were, of course, the subjects most discussed at the breakfast table next morning.Lute monopolized the conversation, a fact for which I was thankful, for it enabled me to dodge Dorinda's questions as to my own adventures.
I did not care to talk about the latter.My feelings concerning them were curiously mixed.Was I glad or sorry that Fate had chosen me to play once more the role of rescuer of a young female in distress? That my playing of the role had altered my standing in Mabel Colton's mind I felt reasonably sure.Her words at parting with me rang true.She was grateful, and she had shaken hands with me.Doubtless she would tell her father the whole story and he, too, in common decency, would be grateful to me for helping his daughter.But, after all, did I care for gratitude from that family? And what form would that gratitude take? Would Colton, like Victor Carver, offer to pay me for my services? No, hardly that, I thought.He was a man of wide experience and, if he did offer payment, it would be in some less crude form than a five dollar bill.
But I did not want payment in any form.I did not want condescension and patronizing thanks.I did not want anything--that was it.Up to now, the occupants of the big house and I had been enemies, open and confessed.I had, so far as possible, kept out of their way and hoped they would keep out of mine.But now the situation was more complicated.I did not know what to expect.Of course there was no chance of our becoming friends.The difference in social position, as they reckoned it, made that too ridiculous to consider as a possibility, even if I wished it, which I distinctly did not.But something, an interview, awkward and disagreeable for both sides, or a patronizing note of thanks, was, at the very least, certain to follow the happenings of the previous night.I wished I had gone home when the Coltons first came to the festival.I wished I had not promised Taylor that I would attend that festival.I wished--Iwished a great many things.The thought of young Carver's public snubbing before his friends was my one unmixed satisfaction.Irather imagined that he was more uncomfortable than I was or could be.
Lute crowed vaingloriously over his own good judgment in leaving for home early.
"I don't know how 'twas," he declared."Somethin' seemed to tell me we was in for a turrible tempest.I was settin' talkin' with Alvin Baker and eatin' my second sasser of berries, when--""SECOND sasser?" interrupted Dorinda, sharply."Where'd you get money for two sassers? I gave you thirty cents when you started for that festival.It cost you fifteen to get inside the gate, and Matildy Dean told me the church folks was cal'latin' to charge fifteen for a helpin' of berries and cream.And you had two sassers, you say.Who paid for the second one?"Her husband swallowed half a cup of coffee before replying.Then his reply had nothing to do with the question.
"I don't know how 'twas," he went on."I just had the feelin', that's all.Sort of a present--presentuary, I guess, come over me.
I looked up at the sky and 'twas gettin' black, and then I looked to the west-ard and I see a flash of lightnin'.'Nothin' but heat lightnin',' says Alvin.'Heat lightnin' nothin'!' says I, 'I tell you--""Who paid for that second sasser of berries?" repeated his wife, relentlessly.
"Why now, Dorindy--"
"Who paid for 'em? If 'twas Alvin Baker you ought to be ashamed of yourself, spongin' on him for your vittles.""Alvin! Good land! did you ever know him to pay for anything he didn't have to?""Never mind what I know.Did you get trusted for 'em? How many times have I told you--""I never got trusted.I ain't that kind.And I didn't sponge 'em, neither.I paid cash, right out of my own pocket, like a man.""You did! Um-hm.I want to know! Well then--MAN, where did the cash in that pocket come from?"Lute squirmed."I--I--" he stammered.
"Where did it come from? Answer me."
"Well--well, Dorindy, you see--when you sent me up to the store t'other day after the brown sugar and--and number 50 spool cotton you give me seventy-five cents.You remember you did, yourself.""Yes, and I remember you said there was a hole in your pocket and you lost the change.I ain't likely to forget it, and I shouldn't think you'd be.""I didn't forget.By time! my ears ain't done singin' yet.But that shows how reckless you talk to me.I never lost that change at all.I found it afterwards in my vest, so all your jawin' was just for nothin'.Ros, she ought to beg my pardon, hadn't she?
Hadn't she now?"
Dorinda saved me the trouble of answering.
"Um-hm!" she observed, dryly."Well, I'll beg my own pardon instead, for bein' so dumb as not to go through your vest myself.
So THAT'S where the other fifteen cents come from! I see.Well, you march out to the woodpile and chop till I tell you to quit.""But, Dorindy, I've got one of my dyspepsy spells.I don't feel real good this mornin'.I told you I didn't.""Folks that make pigs of themselves on stolen berries hadn't ought to feel good.Exercise is fine for dyspepsy.You march."Lute marched, and I marched with him as far as the back yard.
There I left him, groaning before the woodpile, and went down to the boat house.
The Comfort's overhauling was complete and I had launched her the week before.Now she lay anchored at the edge of the channel.For the want of something more important to do I took down my shot gun and began to polish its already glittering barrels.
