Book Three: Chapter XI

by Sherwood Anderson

　　If many things had happened to Clara Butterworth in the three years sincethat day when John May so rudely tripped her first hesitating girlishattempt to run out to life, things had also happened to the people shehad left behind in Bidwell. In so short a space of time her father, hisbusiness associate Steve Hunter, Ben Peeler the town carpenter, JoeWainsworth the harness maker, almost every man and woman in town had becomesomething different in his nature from the man or woman bearing the samename she had known in her girlhood.

　　Ben Peeler was forty years old when Clara went to Columbus to school. Hewas a tall, slender, stoop-shouldered man who worked hard and was muchrespected by his fellow townsmen. Almost any afternoon he might have beenseen going through Main Street, wearing his carpenter's apron and with acarpenter's pencil stuck under his cap and balanced on his ear. He wentinto Oliver Hall's hardware store and came out with a large package ofnails under his arm. A farmer who was thinking of building a new barnstopped him in front of the post-office and for a half hour the two mentalked of the project. Ben put on his glasses, took the pencil out of hiscap and made some notation on the back of the package of nails. "I'll do alittle figuring; then I'll talk things over with you," he said. During thespring, summer and fall Ben had always employed another carpenter and anapprentice, but when Clara came back to town he was employing four gangsof six men each and had two foremen to watch the work and keep it moving,while his son, who in other times would also have been a carpenter, hadbecome a salesman, wore fancy vests and lived in Chicago. Ben was makingmoney and for two years had not driven a nail or held a saw in his hand. Hehad an office in a frame building beside the New York Central tracks, southof Main Street, and employed a book-keeper and a stenographer. In additionto carpentry he had embarked in another business. Backed by Gordon Hart,he had become a lumber dealer and bought and sold lumber under the firmname of Peeler and Hart. Almost every day cars of lumber were unloadedand stacked under sheds in the yard back of his office. He was no longersatisfied with his income as a workman but, under the influence of GordonHart, demanded also a swinging profit on the building materials. Ben nowdrove about town in a vehicle called a buckboard and spent the entire dayhurrying from job to job. He had no time now to stop for a half hour'sgossip with a prospective builder of a barn, and did not come to loaf inBirdie Spinks' drug-store at the end of the day. In the evening he went tothe lumber office and Gordon Hart came over from the bank. The two menfigured on jobs to be built, rows of workingmen's houses, sheds alongsideone of the new factories, large frame houses for the superintendents andother substantial men of the town's new enterprises. In the old days Benhad been glad to go occasionally into the country on a barn-building job.He had liked the country food, the gossip with the farmer and his men atthe noon hour and the drive back and forth to town, mornings and evenings.While he was in the country he managed to make a deal for his winterpotatoes, hay for his horse, and perhaps a barrel of cider to drink onwinter evenings. Now he had no time to think of such things. When a farmercame to see him he shook his head. "Get some one else to figure on yourjob," he advised. "You'll save money by getting a barn-building carpenter.I can't bother. I have too many houses to build." Ben and Gordon sometimesworked in the lumber office until midnight. On warm still nights the sweetsmell of new-cut boards filled the air of the yard and crept in through theopen windows, but the two men, intent on their figures, did not notice. Inthe early evening one or two teams came back to the yard to finish haulinglumber to a job where the men were to work on the next day. The voicesof the men, talking and singing as they loaded their wagons, broke thesilence. Later the wagons loaded high with boards went creaking away.When the two men grew tired and sleepy, they locked the office and walkedthrough the yard to the driveway that led to a residence street. Ben wasnervous and irritable. One evening they found three men, sleeping on a pileof boards in the yard, and drove them out. It gave both men something tothink about. Gordon Hart went home and before he slept made up his mindthat he would not let another day go by without getting the lumber in theyard more heavily insured. Ben had not handled affairs long enough to comequickly to so sensible a decision. All night he rolled and tumbled about inhis bed. "Some tramp with his pipe will set the place afire," he thought."I'll lose all the money I've made." For a long time he did not think ofthe simple expedient of hiring a watchman to drive sleepy and pennilesswanderers away, and charging enough more for his lumber to cover theadditional expense. He got out of bed and dressed, thinking he would gethis shotgun out of the barn and go back to the yard and spend the night.Then he undressed and got into bed again. "I can't work all day and spendmy nights down there," he thought resentfully. When at last he slept, hedreamed of sitting in the lumber yard in the darkness with the gun inhis hand. A man came toward him and he discharged the gun and killed theman. With the inconsistency common to the physical aspect of dreams, thedarkness passed away and it was daylight. The man he had thought dead wasnot quite dead. Although the whole side of his head was torn away, he stillbreathed. His mouth opened and closed convulsively. A dreadful illness tookpossession of the carpenter. He had an elder brother who had died whenhe was a boy, but the face of the man on the ground was the face of hisbrother. Ben sat up in bed and shouted. "Help, for God's sake, help! It'smy own brother. Don't you see, it is Harry Peeler?" he cried. His wifeawoke and shook him. "What's the matter, Ben," she asked anxiously. "What'sthe matter?" "It was a dream," he said, and let his head drop wearily onthe pillow. His wife went to sleep again, but he stayed awake the rest ofthe night. When on the next morning Gordon Hart suggested the insuranceidea, he was delighted. "That settles it of course," he said to himself."It's simple enough, you see. That settles everything."

　　In his shop on Main Street Joe Wainsworth had plenty to do after the boomcame to Bidwell. Many teams were employed in the hauling of buildingmaterials; loads of paving brick were being carted from cars to where theywere to be laid on Main Street; and teams hauled earth from where the newMain Street sewer was being dug and from the freshly dug cellars of houses.Never had there been so many teams employed and so much repairing ofharness to do. Joe's apprentice had left him, had been carried off by therush of young men to the places where the boom had arrived earlier. For ayear Joe had worked alone and had then employed a journeyman harness makerwho had drifted into town drunk and who got drunk every Saturday evening.The new man was an odd character. He had a faculty for making money, butseemed to care little about making it for himself. Within a week after hecame to town he knew every one in Bidwell. His name was Jim Gibson and hehad no sooner come to work for Joe than a contest arose between them. Thecontest concerned the question of who was to run the shop. For a timeJoe asserted himself. He growled at the men who brought harness in to berepaired, and refused to make promises as to when the work would be done.Several jobs were taken away and sent to nearby towns. Then Jim Gibsonasserted himself. When one of the teamsters who had come to town with theboom came with a heavy work harness on his shoulder, he went to meet him.The harness was thrown with a rattling crash on the floor and Jim examinedit. "Oh, the devil, that's an easy job," he declared. "We'll fix that up ina jiffy. You can have it to-morrow afternoon if you want it."

　　For a time Jim made it a practice to come to where Joe stood at work at hisbench and consult with him regarding prices to be charged for work. Then hereturned to the customer and charged more than Joe had suggested. After afew weeks he slopped consulting Joe at all. "You're no good," he exclaimed,laughing. "What you're doing in business I don't know." The old harnessmaker stared at him for a minute and then went to his bench and to work."Business," he muttered, "what do I know about business? I'm a harnessmaker, I am."

　　After Jim came to work for him, Joe made in one year almost twice theamount he had lost in the failure of the plant-setting machine factory. Themoney was not invested in stock of any factory but lay in the bank. Stillhe was not happy. All day Jim Gibson, whom Joe had never dared tell thetales of his triumph as a workman and to whom he did not brag as he hadformerly done to his apprentices, talked of his ability to get the best ofcustomers. He had, he declared, managed, in the last place he had workedbefore he came to Bidwell, to sell a good many sets of harness as handmadethat were in reality made in a factory. "It isn't like the old times," hesaid, "things are changing. We used to sell harness only to farmers or toteamsters right in our towns who owned their own horses. We always knew themen we did business with and always would know them. Now it's different.The men now, you see, who are here in this town to work--well, next monthor next year they'll be somewhere else. All they care about you and me ishow much work they can get for a dollar. Of course they talk big abouthonesty and all that stuff, but that's only their guff. They think maybewe'll fall for it and they'll get more for the money they pay out. That'swhat they're up to."

　　Jim tried hard to make his version of how the shop should be run clearto his employer. Every day he talked for hours regarding the matter. Hetried to get Joe to put in a stock of factory-made harness and when he wasunsuccessful was angry. "O the devil," he cried. "Can't you understand whatyou're up against? The factories are bound to win. For why? Look here,there can't any one but some old moss-back who has worked around horses allhis life tell the difference between hand- and machine-sewed harness. Themachine-made can be sold cheaper. It looks all right and the factories areable to put on a lot of do-dads. That catches the young fellows. It's goodbusiness. Quick sales and profits, that's the story." Jim laughed and thensaid something that made the shivers run up and down Joe's back. "If I hadthe money and was steady I'd start a shop in this town and show you up," hesaid. "I'd pretty near run you out. The trouble with me is I wouldn't stickto business if I had the money. I tried it once and made money; then whenI got a little ahead I shut up the shop and went on a big drunk. I was nogood for a month. When I work for some one else I'm all right. I get drunkon Saturdays and that satisfies me. I like to work and scheme for money,but it ain't any good to me when I get it and never will be. What I wantyou to do here is to shut your eyes and give me a chance. That's all I ask.Just shut your eyes and give me a chance."

　　All day Joe sat astride his harness maker's horse, and when he was notat work, stared out through a dirty window into an alleyway and tried tounderstand Jim's idea of what a harness maker's attitude should be towardhis customers, now that new times had come. He felt very old. Although Jimwas as old in years lived as himself, he seemed very young. He began to bea little afraid of the man. He could not understand why the money, nearlytwenty-five hundred dollars he had put in the bank during the two years Jimhad been with him, seemed so unimportant and the twelve hundred dollars hehad earned slowly after twenty years of work seemed so important. As therewas much repair work always waiting to be done in the shop, he did not gohome to lunch, but every day carried a few sandwiches to the shop in hispocket. At the noon hour, when Jim had gone to his boarding-house, he wasalone, and if no one came in, he was happy. It seemed to him the best timeof the day. Every few minutes he went to the front door to look out. Thequiet Main Street, on which his shop had faced since he was a young manjust come home from his trade adventures, and which had always been such asleepy place at the noon hour in the summer, was now like a battle-fieldfrom which an army had retreated. A great gash had been cut in the streetwhere the new sewer was to be laid. Swarms of workingmen, most of themstrangers, had come into Main Street from the factories by the railroadtracks. They stood in groups in lower Main Street by Wymer's tobacco store.Some of them had gone into Ben Head's saloon for a glass of beer and cameout wiping their mustaches. The men who were digging the sewer, foreignmen, Italians he had heard, sat on the banks of dry earth in the middle ofthe street. Their dinner pails were held between their legs and as they atethey talked in a strange language. He remembered the day he had come toBidwell with his bride, the girl he had met on his trade journey and whohad waited for him until he had mastered his trade and had a shop of hisown. He had gone to New York State to get her and had arrived back inBidwell at noon on just such another summer day. There had not been manypeople about, but every one had known him. On that day every one had beenhis friend. Birdie Spinks rushed out of his drug store and had insistedthat he and his bride go home to dinner with him. Every one had wanted themto come to his house for dinner. It had been a happy, joyous time.

　　The harness maker had always been sorry his wife had borne him no children.He had said nothing and had always pretended he did not want them and now,at last, he was glad they had not come. He went back to his bench and towork, hoping Jim would be late in getting back from lunch. The shop wasvery quiet after the activity of the street that had so bewildered him. Itwas, he thought, like a retreat, almost like a church when you went to thedoor and looked in on a week day. He had done that once and had liked theempty silent church better than he did a church with a preacher and a lotof people in it. He had told his wife about the matter. "It was like theshop in the evening when I've got a job of work done and the boy has gonehome," he had said.

　　The harness maker looked out through the open door of his shop and saw TomButterworth and Steve Hunter going along Main Street, engaged in earnestconversation. Steve had a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth and Tomhad on a fancy vest. He thought again of the money he had lost in theplant-setting machine venture and was furious. The noon hour was spoiledand he was almost glad when Jim came back from his mid-day meal.

　　The position in which he found himself in the shop amused Jim Gibson. Hechuckled to himself as he waited on the customers who came in, and as heworked at the bench. One day when he came back along Main Street fromthe noon meal, he decided to try an experiment. "If I lose my job whatdifference does it make?" he asked himself. He stopped at a saloon and hada drink of whisky. When he got to the shop he began to scold his employer,to threaten him as though he were his apprentice. Swaggering suddenly in,he walked to where Joe was at work and slapped him roughly on the back."Come, cheer up, old daddy," he said. "Get the gloom out of you. I'm tiredof your muttering and growling at things."

　　The employee stepped back and watched his employer. Had Joe ordered him outof the shop he would not have been surprised, and as he said later when hetold Ben Head's bartender of the incident, would not have cared very much.The fact that he did not care, no doubt saved him. Joe was frightened. Forjust a moment he was so angry he could not speak, and then he rememberedthat if Jim left him he would have to wait on trade and would have todicker with the strange teamsters regarding the repairing of the workharness. Bending over the bench he worked for an hour in silence. Then,instead of demanding an explanation of the rude familiarity with which Jimhad treated him, he began to explain. "Now look here, Jim," he pleaded,"don't you pay any attention to me. You do as you please here. Don't youpay any attention to me."

　　Jim said nothing, but a smile of triumph lit up his face. Late in theafternoon he left the shop. "If any one comes in, tell them to wait. Iwon't be gone very long," he said insolently. Jim went into Ben Head'ssaloon and told the bartender how his experiment had come out. The storywas later told from store to store up and down the Main Street of Bidwell."He was like a boy who has been caught with his hand in the jam pot," Jimexplained. "I can't think what's the matter with him. Had I been in his,shoes I would have kicked Jim Gibson out of the shop. He told me not topay any attention to him and to run the shop as I pleased. Now what do youthink of that? Now what do you think of that for a man who owns his ownshop and has money in the bank? I tell you, I don't know how it is, but Idon't work for Joe any more. He works for me. Some day you come in the shopcasual-like and I'll boss him around for you. I'm telling you I don't knowhow it is that it come about, but I'm the boss of the shop as sure as thedevil."

　　All of Bidwell was looking at itself and asking itself questions. Ed Hall,who had been a carpenter's apprentice earning but a few dollars a week withhis master, Ben Peeler, was now foreman in the corn-cutter factory andreceived a salary of twenty-five dollars every Saturday night. It wasmore money than he had ever dreamed of earning in a week. On pay nightshe dressed himself in his Sunday clothes and had himself shaved at JoeTrotter's barber shop. Then he went along Main Street, fingering the moneyin his pocket and half fearing he would suddenly awaken and find it all adream. He went into Wymer's tobacco store to get a cigar, and old ClaudeWymer came to wait on him. On the second Saturday evening after he got hisnew position, the tobacconist, a rather obsequious man, called him Mr.Hall. It was the first time such a thing had happened and it upset him alittle. He laughed and made a joke of it. "Don't get high and mighty," hesaid, and turned to wink at the men loafing in the shop. Later he thoughtabout the matter and was sorry he had not accepted the new title withoutprotest. "Well, I'm foreman, and a lot of the young fellows I've alwaysknown and fooled around with will be working under me," he told himself. "Ican't be getting thick with them."

　　Ed walked along the street feeling very keenly the importance of his newplace in the community. Other young fellows in the factory were getting adollar and a half a day. At the end of the week he got twenty-five dollars,almost three times as much. The money was an indication of superiority.There could be no doubt about that. Ever since he had been a boy he hadheard older men speak respectfully of men who possessed money. "Get onin the world," they said to young men, when they talked seriously. Amongthemselves they did not pretend that they did not want money. "It's moneymakes the mare go," they said.

　　Down Main Street to the New York Central tracks Ed went, and then turnedout of the street and disappeared into the station. The evening train hadpassed and the place was deserted. He went into the dimly lightedwaiting-room. An oil lamp, turned low, and fastened by a bracket to thewall made a little circle of light in a corner. The room was like a churchin the early morning of a wintry day, cold and still. He went hurriedlyto the light, and taking the roll of money from his pocket, counted it.Then he went out of the room and along the station platform almost to MainStreet, but was not satisfied. On an impulse he returned to the waitingroom again and, late in the evening on his way home, he stopped there for afinal counting of the money before he went to bed.

　　Peter Fry was a blacksmith and had a son who was clerk in the BidwellHotel. He was a tall young fellow with curly yellow hair and watery blueeyes and smoked cigarettes, a habit that was an offense to the nostrils ofthe men of his times. His name was Jacob, but he was called in derisionFizzy Fry. The young man's mother was dead and he got his meals at thehotel and at night slept on a cot in the hotel office. He had a passion forgayly colored neckties and waistcoats and was forever trying unsuccessfullyto attract the attention of the town girls. When he and his father met onthe street, they did not speak to each other. Sometimes the father stoppedand stared at his son. "How did I happen to be the father of a thing likethat?" he muttered aloud.

　　The blacksmith was a square-shouldered, heavily built man with a bushyblack beard and a tremendous voice. When he was a young man he sang in theMethodist choir, but after his wife died he stopped going to church andbegan putting his voice to other uses. He smoked a short clay pipe that hadbecome black with age and that at night could not be seen against his blackcurly beard. Smoke rolled out of his mouth in clouds and appeared to comeup out of his belly. He was like a volcanic mountain and was called, by themen who loafed in Birdie Spinks' drug store, Smoky Pete.

　　Smoky Pete was in more ways than one like a mountain given to eruptions. Hedid not get drunk, but after his wife died he got into the habit of havingtwo or three drinks of whisky every evening. The whisky inflamed his mindand he strode up and down Main Street, ready to quarrel with any one hiseye lighted upon. He got into the habit of roaring at his fellow citizensand making ribald jokes at their expense. Every one was a little afraidof him and he became in an odd way the guardian of the town morals. SandyFerris, a house painter, became a drunkard and did not support his family.Smoky Pete abused him in the public streets and in the sight of all men."You cheap thing, warming your belly with whisky while jour childrenfreeze, why don't you try being a man?" he shouted at the house painter,who staggered into a side street and went to sleep off his intoxication ina stall in Clyde Neighbors' livery barn. The blacksmith kept at the painteruntil the whole town took up his cry and the saloons became ashamed toaccept his custom. He was forced to reform.

　　The blacksmith did not, however, discriminate in the choice of victims. Hiswas not the spirit of the reformer. A merchant of Bidwell, who had alwaysbeen highly respected and who was an elder in his church, went one eveningto the county seat and there got into the company of a notorious womanknown throughout the county as Nell Hunter. The two went into a little roomat the back of a saloon and were seen by two Bidwell young men who hadgone to the county seat for an evening of adventure. When the merchant,named Pen Beck, realized he had been seen, he was afraid the tale of hisindiscretion would be carried to his home town, and left the woman to jointhe young men. He was not a drinking man, but began at once to buy drinksfor his companions. The three got very drunk and drove home together lateat night in a rig the young men had hired for the occasion from ClydeNeighbors. On the way the merchant kept trying to explain his presence inthe company of the woman. "Don't say anything about it," he urged. "Itwould be misunderstood. I have a friend whose son has been taken in by thewoman. I was trying to get her to let him alone."

　　The two young men were delighted that they had caught the merchant off hisguard. "It's all right," they assured him. "Be a good fellow and we won'ttell your wife or the minister of your church." When they had all thedrinks they could carry, they got the merchant into the buggy and began towhip the horse. They had driven half way to Bidwell and all of them hadfallen into a drunken sleep, when the horse became frightened at somethingin the road and ran away. The buggy was overturned and they were all throwninto the road. One of the young men had an arm broken and Pen Beck's coatwas almost torn in two. He paid the young man's doctor's bill and settledwith Clyde Neighbors for the damage to the buggy.

　　For a long time the story of the merchant's adventure did not leak out, andwhen it did, but a few intimate friends of the young men knew it. Then itreached the ears of Smoky Pete. On the day he heard it he could hardly bearto wait until evening came. He hurried to Ben Head's saloon, had two drinksof whisky and then went to stand with the loafers before Birdie Spinks'drug store. At half past seven Pen Beck turned into Main Street from CherryStreet, where he lived. When he was more than three blocks away from thecrowd of men before the drug store, Smoky Pete's roaring voice began toquestion him. "Well, Penny, my lad, so you went for a night among theladies?" he shouted. "You've been fooling around with my girl, Nell Hunter,over at the county seat. I'd like to know what you mean. You'll have tomake an explanation to me."

　　The merchant stopped and stood on the sidewalk, unable to decide whether toface his tormentor or flee. It was just at the quiet time of the eveningwhen the housewives of the town had finished their evening's work and stoodresting by the kitchen doors. It seemed to Pen Beck that Smoky Pete's voicecould be heard for a mile. He decided to face it out and if necessary tofight the blacksmith. As he came hurriedly toward the group before thedrug store, Smoky Pete's voice took up the story of the merchant's wildnight. He stepped out from the men in front of the store and seemed to beaddressing himself to the whole street. Clerks, merchants, and customersrushed out of the stores. "Well," he cried, "so you made a night of it withmy girl Nell Hunter. When you sat with her in the back room of the saloonyou didn't know I was there. I was hidden under a table. If you'd doneanything more than bite her on the neck I'd have come out and called you totime."

　　Smoky Pete broke into a roaring laugh and waved his arms to the peoplegathered in the street and wondering what it was all about. It was for himone of the really delicious spots of his life. He tried to explain to thepeople what he was talking about. "He was with Nell Hunter in the back roomof a saloon over at the county seat," he shouted. "Edgar Duncan and DaveOldham saw him there. He came home with them and the horse ran away. Hedidn't commit adultery. I don't want you to think that happened. All thathappened was he bit my best girl, Nell Hunter, on the neck. That's whatmakes me so mad. I don't like to have her bitten by him. She is my girl andbelongs to me."

　　The blacksmith, forerunner of the modern city newspaper reporter in hislove of taking the center of the stage in order to drag into public sightthe misfortunes of his fellows, did not finish his tirade. The merchant,white with anger, rushed up and struck him a blow on the chest with hissmall and rather fat fist. The blacksmith knocked him into the gutter andlater, when he was arrested, went proudly off to the office of the townmayor and paid his fine.

　　It was said by the enemies of Smoky Pete that he had not taken a bath foryears. He lived alone in a small frame house at the edge of town. Behindhis house was a large field. The house itself was unspeakably dirty. Whenthe factories came to town, Tom Butterworth and Steve Hunter bought thefield intending to cut it into building lots. They wanted to buy theblacksmith's house and finally did secure it by paying a high price. Heagreed to move out within a year but after the money was paid repented andwished he had not sold. A rumor began to run about town connecting the nameof Tom Butterworth with that of Fanny Twist, the town milliner. It wassaid the rich farmer had been seen coming out of her shop late at night.The blacksmith also heard another story whispered in the streets. LouiseTrucker, the farmer's daughter who had at one time been seen creepingthrough a side street in the company of young Steve Hunter, had gone toCleveland and it was said she had become the proprietor of a prosperoushouse of ill fame. Steve's money, it was declared, had been used to set herup in business. The two stories offered unlimited opportunity for expansionin the blacksmith's mind, but while he was preparing himself to do whathe called bringing the two men down in the sight and hearing of the wholetown, a thing happened that upset his plans. His son Fizzy Fry left hisplace as clerk in the hotel and went to work in the corn-cutting machinefactory. One day his father saw him coming from the factory at noon with adozen other workmen. The young man had on overalls and smoked a pipe. Whenhe saw his father he stopped, and when the other men had gone on, explainedhis sudden transformation. "I'm in the shop now, but I won't be therelong," he said proudly. "You know Tom Butterworth stays at the hotel? Well,he's given me a chance. I got to stay in the shop for a while to learnabout things. After that I'm to have a chance as shipping clerk. Then I'llbe a traveler on the road." He looked at his father and his voice broke."You haven't thought very much of me, but I'm not so bad," he said. "Idon't want to be a sissy, but I'm not very strong. I worked at the hotelbecause there wasn't anything else I thought I could do."

　　Peter Fry went home to his house but could not eat the food he had cookedfor himself on the tiny stove in the kitchen. He went outdoors and stoodfor a long time, looking out across the cow-pasture Tom Butterworth andSteve Hunter had bought and that they proposed should become a part of therapidly growing city. He had himself taken no part in the new impulses thathad come upon the town, except that he had taken advantage of the failureof the town's first industrial effort to roar insults at those of histownsmen who had lost their money. One evening he and Ed Hall had gotinto a fight about the matter on Main Street, and the blacksmith had beencompelled to pay another fine. Now he wondered what was the matter withhim. He had evidently made a mistake about his son. Had he made a mistakeabout Tom Butterworth and Steve Hunter?

　　The perplexed man went back to his shop and all the afternoon worked insilence. His heart had been set on the creation of a dramatic scene on MainStreet, when he openly attacked the two most prominent men of the town,and he even pictured himself as likely to be put in the town jail wherehe would have an opportunity to roar things through the iron bars at thecitizens gathered in the street. In anticipation of such an event, he hadprepared himself to attack the reputation of other people. He had neverattacked women but, if he were locked up, he intended to do so. John Mayhad once told him that Tom Butterworth's daughter, who had been away tocollege for a year, had been sent away because she was in the family way.John May had claimed he was responsible for her condition. Several of Tom'sfarm hands he said had been on intimate terms with the girl. The blacksmithhad told himself that if he got into trouble for publicly attacking thefather he would be justified in telling what he knew about the daughter.

　　The blacksmith did not come into Main Street that evening. As he went homefrom work he saw Tom Butterworth standing with Steve Hunter before thepost-office. For several weeks Tom had been spending most of his time awayfrom town, had only appeared in town for a few hours at a time, and had notbeen seen on the streets in the evening. The blacksmith had been waitingto catch both men on the street at one time. Now that this opportunity hadcome, he began to be afraid he would not dare take it. "What right have Ito spoil my boy's chances?" he asked himself, as he went rather heavilyalong the street toward his own house.

　　It rained on that evening and for the first time in years Smoky Pete didnot go into Main Street. He told himself that the rain kept him at home,but the thought did not satisfy him. All evening he moved restlessly aboutthe house and at half past eight went to bed. He did not, however, sleep,but lay with his trousers on and with his pipe in his mouth, trying tothink. Every few minutes he took the pipe from his mouth, blew out a cloudof smoke and swore viciously. At ten o'clock the farmer, who had owned thecow-pasture back of his house and who still kept his cows there, saw hisneighbor tramping about in the rain in the field and saying things he hadplanned to say on Main Street in the hearing of the entire town.

　　The farmer also had gone to bed early, but at ten o'clock he decided that,as the rain continued to fall and as it was growing somewhat cold, he hadbetter get up and let his cows into the barn. He did not dress, but threw ablanket about his shoulders and went out without a light. He let down thebars separating the field from the barnyard and then saw and heard SmokyPete in the field. The blacksmith walked back and forth in the darkness,and as the farmer stood by the fence, began to talk in a loud voice. "Well,Tom Butterworth, you're fooling around with Fanny Twist," he cried into thesilence and emptiness of the night. "You're sneaking into her shop late atnight, eh? Steve Hunter has set Louise Trucker up in business in a house inCleveland. Are you and Fanny Twist going to open a house here? Is that thenext industrial enterprise we're to have here in this town?"

　　The amazed farmer stood in the rain in the darkness, listening to the wordsof his neighbor. The cows came through the gate and went into the barn. Hisbare legs were cold and he drew them alternately up under the blanket. Forten minutes Peter Fry tramped up and down in the field. Once he came quitenear the farmer, who drew himself down beside the fence and listened,filled with amazement and fright. He could dimly see the tall, old manstriding along and waving his arms about. When he had said many bitter,hateful things regarding the two most prominent men of Bidwell, he beganto abuse Tom Butterworth's daughter, calling her a bitch and the daughterof a dog. The farmer waited until Smoky Pete had gone back to his houseand, when he saw a light in the kitchen, and fancied he could also see hisneighbor cooking food at a stove, he went again into his own house. He hadhimself never quarreled with Smoky Pete and was glad. He was glad also thatthe field at the back of his house had been sold. He intended to sell therest of his farm and move west to Illinois. "The man's crazy," he toldhimself. "Who but a crazy man would talk that way in the darkness? Isuppose I ought to report him and get him locked up, but I guess I'llforget what I heard. A man who would talk like that about nice respectablepeople would do anything. He might set fire to my house some night orsomething like that. I guess I'll just forget what I heard."