Jim Lancy's Waterloo

by Elia W. Peattie

"WE must get married before time to putin crops," he wrote. "We must makea success of the farm the first year, for luck.Could you manage to be ready to come outWest by the last of February? After Marchopens there will be no let-up, and I do notsee how I could get away. Make it February, Annie dear. A few weeks more or lesscan make no difference to you, but theymake a good deal of difference to me."The woman to whom this was written readit with something like anger. "I don't believe he's so impatient for me!" she saidto herself. "What he wants is to get thecrops in on time." But she changed the dateof their wedding, and made it February.Their wedding journey was only fromthe Illinois village where she lived to theirNebraska farm. They had never been muchtogether, and they had much to say to eachother."Farming won't come hard to you," Jimassured her. "All one needs to farm withis brains.""What a success you'll make of it!" shecried saucily."I wish I had my farm clear," Jim wenton; "but that's more than any one hasaround me. I'm no worse off than the rest.We've got to pay off the mortgage, Annie.""Of course we must. We'll just do without till we get the mortgage lifted. Hardwork will do anything, I guess. And I'mnot afraid to work, Jim, though I've neverhad much experience."Jim looked out of the window a long time,at the gentle undulations of the brown Iowaprairie. His eyes seemed to pierce beneaththe sod, to the swelling buds of the yetinvisible grass. He noticed how disdainfully the rains of the new year beat downthe grasses of the year that was gone. Itopened to his mind a vision of the season'spossibilities. For a moment, even amidthe smoke of the car, he seemed to scentclover, and hear the stiff swishing of thecorn and the dull burring of the bees."I wish sometimes," he said, leaning forward to look at his bride, "that I had beenborn something else than a farmer. But Ican no more help farming, Annie, than abird can help singing, or a bee makinghoney. I didn't take to farming. I wassimply born with a hoe in my hand.""I don't know a blessed thing about it,"Annie confessed. "But I made up mymind that a farm with you was better thana town without you. That's all there is toit, as far as I am concerned."Jim Lancy slid his arm softly about herwaist, unseen by the other passengers.Annie looked up apprehensively, to see ifany one was noticing. But they wereeating their lunches. It was a commoncoach on which they were riding. Therewas a Pullman attached to the train, andAnnie had secretly thought that, as it wastheir wedding journey, it might be morebecoming to take it. But Jim had madeno suggestion about it. What he said laterexplained the reason."I would have liked to have brought youa fine present," he said. "It seemed shabbyto come with nothing but that little ring.But I put everything I had on our home,you know. And yet, I'm sure you'll thinkit poor enough after what you've been usedto. You'll forgive me for only bringing thering, my dear?""But you brought me something better,"Annie whispered. She was a foolish littlegirl. "You brought me love, you know."Then they rode in silence for a long time.Both of them were new to the phraseologyof love. Their simple compliments to eachother were almost ludicrous. But any onewho might have chanced to overhear themwould have been charmed, for they betrayedan innocence as beautiful as an uncloudeddawn.Annie tried hard not to be depressedby the treeless stretches of the Nebraskaplains."This is different from Illinois," sheventured once, gently; "it is even differentfrom Iowa.""Yes, yes," cried Jim, enthusiastically, "itis different! It is the finest country in theworld! You never feel shut in. You canalways see off. I feel at home after I getin Nebraska. I'd choke back where youlive, with all those little gullies and the treeseverywhere. It's a mystery to me howfarmers have patience to work there."Annie opened her eyes. There was evidently more than one way of looking at aquestion. The farm-houses seemed verylow and mean to her, as she looked at themfrom the window. There were no fences,excepting now and then the inhospitablebarbed wire. The door-yards were bleak toher eyes, without the ornamental shrubberywhich every farmer in her part of the countrywas used to tending. The cattle stood unshedded in their corrals. The reapers andbinders stood rusting in the dull drizzle."How shiftless!" cried Annie, indignantly."What do these men mean by letting theirmachinery lie out that way? I should thinkone winter of lying out would hurt it morethan three summers of using.""It does. But sheds are not easily had.Lumber is dear.""But I should think it would be economyeven then.""Yes," he said, "perhaps. But we all dothat way out here. It takes some money fora man to be economical with. Some of ushaven't even that much."There was a six-mile ride from the station.The horses were waiting, hitched up to aserviceable light wagon, and driven by the"help." He was a thin young man, withred hair, and he blushed vicariously for Jimand Annie, who were really too entertainedwith each other, and at the idea of the newlife opening up before them, to think anything about blushing. At the station, anumber of men insisted on shaking handswith Jim, and being introduced to his wife.They were all bearded, as if shaving werean unnecessary labor, and their trousers weretucked in dusty top-boots, none of whichhad ever seen blacking. Annie had a senseof these men seeming unwashed, or as ifthey had slept in their clothes. But theyhad kind voices, and their eyes were veryfriendly. So she shook hands with them allwith heartiness, and asked them to drive outand bring their womenkind."I am going to make up my mind notto be lonesome," she declared; "but, all thesame, I shall want to see some women."Annie had got safe on the high seat ofthe wagon, and was balancing her little feeton the inclined foot-rest, when a womancame running across the street, callingaloud, --"Mr. Lancy! Mr. Lancy! You're notgoing to drive away without introducingme to your wife!"She was a thin little woman, with movements as nervous and as graceless as those ofa grasshopper. Her dun-colored garmentsseemed to have all the hue bleached out ofthem with wind and weather. Her face wasbrown and wrinkled, and her bright eyesflashed restlessly, deep in their sockets. Twofront teeth were conspicuously missing; andher faded hair was blown in wisps abouther face. Jim performed the introduction,and Annie held out her hand. It was apretty hand, delicately gloved in dove color.The woman took it in her own, and aftershe had shaken it, held it for a silent moment, looking at it. Then she almost threwit from her. The eyes which she liftedto scan the bright young face above herhad something like agony in them. Annieblushed under this fierce scrutiny, and thewoman, suddenly conscious of her demeanor,forced a smile to her lips."I'll come out an' see yeh," she said, incordial tones. "May be, as a new housekeeper, you'll like a little advice. You've anice place, an' I wish yeh luck.""Thank you. I'm sure I'll need advice,"cried Annie, as they drove off. Then shesaid to Jim, "Who is that old woman?""Old woman? Why, she ain't a day overthirty, Mis' Dundy ain't."Annie looked at her husband blankly.But he was already talking of somethingelse, and she asked no more about thewoman, though all the way along the roadthe face seemed to follow her. It mighthave been this that caused the tighteningabout her heart. For some way her vivacityhad gone; and the rest of the ride she askedno questions, but sat looking straight beforeher at the northward stretching road, witheyes that felt rather than saw the brown,bare undulations, rising every now and thenclean to the sky; at the side, little famished-looking houses, unacquainted with paint,disorderly yards, and endless reaches offurrowed ground, where in summer the cornhad waved.The horses needed no indication of theline to make them turn up a smooth bit ofroad that curved away neatly 'mid the raggedgrasses. At the end of it, in a clump ofpuny scrub oaks, stood a square little house,in uncorniced simplicity, with blank, uncurtained windows staring out at Annie, and fora moment her eyes, blurred with the cold,seemed to see in one of them the despairingface of the woman with the wisps of fadedhair blowing about her face."Well, what do you think of it?" Jimcried, heartily, swinging her down from herhigh seat, and kissing her as he did so."This is your home, my girl, and you are aswelcome to it as you would be to a palace,if I could give it to you."Annie put up her hands to hide the trembling of her lips; and she let Jim see therewere tears in her eyes as an apology for notreplying. The young man with the red hairtook away the horses, and Jim, with his armaround his wife's waist, ran toward the houseand threw open the door for her to enter.The intense heat of two great stoves struckin their faces; and Annie saw the big burner,erected in all its black hideousness in themiddle of the front room, like a sort ofhousehold hoodoo, to be constantly propitiated, like the gods of Greece; and in thekitchen, the new range, with a distractedtea-kettle leaping on it, as if it would liketo loose its fetters and race away over theprairie after its cousin, the locomotive.It was a house of four rooms, and aglance revealed the fact that it had beenprovided with the necessaries."I think we can be very comfortablehere," said Jim, rather doubtfully.Annie saw she must make some response."I am sure we can be more than comfortable, Jim," she replied. "We can be happy.Show me, if you please, where my roomis. I must hang my cloak up in the rightplace so that I shall feel as if I were gettingsettled."It was enough. Jim had no longer anydoubts. He felt sure they were going to behappy ever afterward.It was Annie who got the first meal; sheinsisted on it, though both the men wantedher to rest. And Jim hadn't the heart totell her that, as a general thing, it wouldnot do to put two eggs in the corn-cake,and that the beefsteak was a great luxury.When he saw her about to break an egg forthe coffee, however, he interfered."The shells of the ones you used for thecake will settle the coffee just as well," hesaid. "You see we have to be very carefulof eggs out here at this season.""Oh! Will the shells really settle it?This is what you must call prairie lore.I suppose out here we find out what thereal relations of invention and necessityare -- eh?"Jim laughed disproportionately. Hethought her wonderfully witty. And heand the help ate so much that Annieopened her eyes. She had thought therewould be enough left for supper. Butthere was nothing left.For the next two weeks Jim was able to bemuch with her; and they amused themselvesby decorating the house with the brightcurtainings that Annie had brought, andputting up shelves for a few pieces of china.She had two or three pictures, also, whichhad come from her room in her old home,and some of those useless dainty things withwhich some women like to litter the room."Most folks," Jim explained, "have to becontent with one fire, and sit in the kitchen;but I thought, as this was our honeymoon,we would put on some lugs."Annie said nothing then; but a day ortwo after she ventured, --"Perhaps it would be as well now, dear,if we kept in the kitchen. I'll keep it asbright and pleasant as I can. And, anyway, you can be more about with me whenI'm working then. We'll lay a fire in thefront-room stove, so that we can light it ifanybody comes. We can just as well savethat much."Jim looked up brightly. "All right," hesaid. "You're a sensible little woman.You see, every cent makes a difference.And I want to be able to pay off fivehundred dollars of that mortgage thisyear."So, after that, they sat in the kitchen; andthe fire was laid in the front room, againstthe coming of company. But no one came,and it remained unlighted.Then the season began to show signs ofopening, -- bleak signs, hardly recognizableto Annie; and after that Jim was not muchin the house. The weeks wore on, andspring came at last, dancing over the hills.The ground-birds began building, and atfour each morning awoke Annie with theirsylvan opera. The creek that ran just atthe north of the house worked itself into afury and blustered along with much noisetoward the great Platte which, miles away,wallowed in its vast sandy bed. The hillsflushed from brown to yellow, and frommottled green to intensest emerald, and inthe superb air all the winds of heavenseemed to meet and frolic with laughterand song.Sometimes the mornings were so beautiful that, the men being afield and Annie allalone, she gave herself up to an ecstasy andkneeled by the little wooden bench outsidethe door, to say, "Father, I thank Thee,"and then went about her work with all thepoem of nature rhyming itself over and overin her heart.It was on such a day as this that Mrs.Dundy kept her promise and came over tosee if the young housekeeper needed any ofthe advice she had promised her. She hadwalked, because none of the horses could bespared. It had got so warm now that thefire in the kitchen heated the whole housesufficiently, and Annie had the rooms cleanto exquisiteness. Mrs. Dundy looked aboutwith envious eyes."How lovely!" she said."Do you think so?" cried Annie, in surprise. "I like it, of course, because it ishome, but I don't see how you could callanything here lovely.""Oh, you don't understand," her visitorwent on. "It's lovely because it looks sohappy. Some of us have -- well, kind o'lost our grip.""It's easy to do that if you don't feelwell," Annie remarked sympathetically. "Ihaven't felt as well as usual myself, lately.And I do get lonesome and wonder whatgood it does to fix up every day when thereis no one to see. But that is all nonsense,and I put it out of my head."She smoothed out the clean lawn apronwith delicate touch. Mrs. Dundy followedthe movement with her eyes."Oh, my dear," she cried, "you don'tknow nothin' about it yet! But you willknow! You will!" and those restless, hoteyes of hers seemed to grow more restlessand more hot as they looked with infinitepity at the young woman before her.Annie thought of these words often as thesummer came on, and the heat grew. Jimwas seldom to be seen now. He was up atfour each morning, and the last chore wasnot completed till nine at night. Then hethrew himself in bed and lay there log-liketill dawn. He was too weary to talk much,and Annie, with her heart aching for hisfatigue, forbore to speak to him. Shecooked the most strengthening things shecould, and tried always to look fresh andpleasant when he came in. But she oftenthought her pains were in vain, for he hardlyrested his sunburned eyes on her. His skingot so brown that his face was strangelychanged, especially as he no longer hadtime to shave, and had let a rough beardstraggle over his cheeks and chin. OnSundays Annie would have liked to go tochurch, but the horses were too tired to betaken out, and she did not feel well enoughto walk far; besides, Jim got no particulargood out of walking over the hills unlesshe had a plough in his hand.Harvest came at length, and the crop wasgood. There were any way from three totwenty men at the house then, and Anniecooked for all of them. Jim had tried toget some one to help her, but he had notsucceeded. Annie strove to be brave, remembering that farm-women all over thecountry were working in similar fashion.But in spite of all she could do, the daysgot to seem like nightmares, and sleep between was but a brief pause in which she wasalways dreaming of water, and thinking thatshe was stooping to put fevered lips to arunning brook. Some of these men werevery disgusting to Annie. Their mannerswere as bad as they could well be, and acoarse word came naturally to their lips."To be master of the soil, that is onething," said she to herself in sickness ofspirit; "but to be the slave of it is another.These men seem to have got their souls allcovered with muck." She noticed thatthey had no idea of amusement. They hadnever played anything. They did not evencare for base-ball. Their idea of happinessappeared to be to do nothing; and there wasa good part of the year in which they werehappy, -- for these were not for the mostpart men owning farms; they were menwho hired out to help the farmer. A goodmany of them had been farmers at one timeand another, but they had failed. They alltalked politics a great deal, -- politics and railroads. Annie had not much patience withit all. She had great confidence in thecourse of things. She believed that in thiscountry all men have a fair chance. Sowhen it came about that the corn and thewheat, which had been raised with suchincessant toil, brought them no money, butonly a loss, Annie stood aghast."I said the rates were ruinous," Jim saidto her one night, after it was all over, andhe had found out that the year's slavishwork had brought him a loss of threehundred dollars; "it's been a conspiracyfrom the first. The price of corn is allright. But by the time we set it down inChicago we are out eighteen cents a bushel.It means ruin. What are we going to do?Here we had the best crop we've had foryears -- but what's the use of talking!They have us in their grip.""I don't see how it is," Annie protested."I should think it would be for the interest of the roads to help the people to be asprosperous as possible.""Oh, we can't get out! And we'rebound to stay and raise grain. And they'rebound to cart it. And that's all there is toit. They force us to stand every loss, evento the shortage that is made in transportation.The railroad companies own the elevators,and they have the cinch on us. Our grainis at their mercy. God knows how I'mgoing to raise that interest. As for the fivehundred we were going to pay on the mortgage this year, Annie, we're not in it."Autumn was well set in by this time, andthe brilliant cold sky hung over the prairiesas young and fresh as if the world were notold and tired. Annie no longer could lookas trim as when she first came to the littlehouse. Her pretty wedding garments werebeginning to be worn and there was nomoney for more. Jim would not play chessnow of evenings. He was forever writingarticles for the weekly paper in the adjoining town. They talked of running him forthe state legislature, and he was anxiousfor the nomination."I think I might be able to stand it if Icould fight 'em!" he declared; "but to sithere idle, knowing that I have been cheatedout of my year's work, just as much as if Ihad been knocked down on the road andthe money taken from me, is enough tosend me to the asylum with a strait-jacketon!"Life grew to take on tragic aspects. Annieused to find herself wondering if anywherein the world there were people with lighthearts. For her there was no longer anticipation of joy, or present companionship, orany divertissement in the whole world. Jimread books which she did not understand,and with a few of his friends, who droppedin now and then evenings or Sundays, talkedabout these books in an excited manner.She would go to her room to rest, andlying there in the darkness on the bed,would hear them speaking together, sometimes all at once, in those sternly vindictivetones men use when there is revolt in theirsouls."It is the government which is helpingto impoverish us," she would hear Jimsaying. "Work is money. That is tosay, it is the active form of money. Thewealth of a country is estimated by itspower of production. And its power ofproduction means work. It means thereare so many men with so much capacity.Now the government owes it to these mento have money enough to pay them fortheir work; and if there is not enoughmoney in circulation to pay to each man forhis honest and necessary work, then I saythat government is in league with crime.It is trying to make defaulters of us. It hasa hundred ways of cheating us. When Ibought this farm and put the mortgage onit, a day's work would bring twice theresults it will now. That is to say, thetotal at the end of the year showed myprofits to be twice what they would benow, even if the railway did not stand inthe way to rob us of more than we earn.So that it will take just twice as manydays' work now to pay off this mortgageas it would have done at the time it wascontracted. It's a conspiracy, I tell you!Those Eastern capitalists make a science ofruining us."He got more eloquent as time went on,and Annie, who had known him first asrather a careless talker, was astonished atthe boldness of his language. But conversation was a lost art with him. He nolonger talked. He harangued.In the early spring Annie's baby wasborn, -- a little girl with a nervous cry, whonever slept long at a time, and who seemedto wail merely from distaste at living. Itwas Mrs. Dundy who came over to lookafter the house till Annie got able to do so.Her eyes had that fever in them, as ever.She talked but little, but her touch onAnnie's head was more eloquent than words.One day Annie asked for the glass, andMrs. Dundy gave it to her. She looked init a long time. The color was gone fromher cheeks, and about her mouth there wasan ugly tightening. But her eyes flashedand shone with that same -- no, no, it couldnot be that in her face also was coming thelook of half-madness! She motioned Mrs.Dundy to come to her."You knew it was coming," she said,brokenly, pointing to the reflection in theglass. "That first day, you knew how itwould be."Mrs. Dundy took the glass away with agentle hand."How could I help knowing?" she saidsimply. She went into the next room, andwhen she returned Annie noticed that thehandkerchief stuck in her belt was wet, asif it had been wept on.A woman cannot stay long away fromher home on a farm at planting time, evenif it is a case of life and death. Mrs. Dundyhad to go home, and Annie crept abouther work with the wailing baby in her arms.The house was often disorderly now; butit could not be helped. The baby had tobe cared for. It fretted so much that Jimslept apart in the mow of the barn, that hissleep might not be disturbed. It was apleasant, dim place, full of sweet scents, andhe liked to be there alone. Though he hadalways been an unusual worker, he workednow more like a man who was fighting offfate, than a mere toiler for bread.The corn came up beautifully, and far asthe eye could reach around their home ittossed its broad green leaves with an ocean-like swelling of sibilant sound. Jim lovedit with a sort of passion. Annie loved it,too. Sometimes, at night, when her fatiguewas unbearable, and her irritation wearingout both body and soul, she took her littleone in her arms and walked among thecorn, letting its rustling soothe the baby tosleep.The heat of the summer was terrible.The sun came up in that blue sky like acurse, and hung there till night came tocomfort the blistering earth. And onemorning a terrible thing happened. Anniewas standing out of doors in the shade ofthose miserable little oaks, ironing, whensuddenly a blast of air struck her in theface, which made her look up startled. Fora moment she thought, perhaps, there wasa fire near in the grass. But there was none.Another blast came, hotter this time, andfifteen minutes later that wind was sweeping straight across the plain, burning andblasting. Annie went in the house to finishher ironing, and was working there, whenshe heard Jim's footstep on the door-sill.He could not pale because of the tan, butthere was a look of agony and of anger --almost brutish anger -- in his eyes. Thenhe looked, for a moment, at Annie standingthere working patiently, and rocking thelittle crib with one foot, and he sat down onthe door-step and buried his face in hisbrown arms.The wind blew for three days. At theend of that time every ear was withered inthe stalk. The corn crop was ruined.But there were the other crops whichmust be attended to, and Jim watched thosewith the alertness of a despairing man; andso harvest came again, and again the housewas filled with men who talked their carelesstalk, and who were not ashamed to gorgewhile this one woman cooked for them.The baby lay on a quilt on the floor in thecoolest part of the kitchen. Annie fed itirregularly. Sometimes she almost forgotit. As for its wailing, she had grown soused to it that she hardly heard it, anymore than she did the ticking of the clock.And yet, tighter than anything else in life,was the hold that little thing had on herheart-strings. At night, after the interminable work had been finished -- though inslovenly fashion -- she would take it up andcaress it with fierceness, and worn as shewas, would bathe it and soothe it, and giveit warm milk from the big tin pail."Lay the child down," Jim would sayimpatiently, while the men would tell howtheir wives always put the babies on thebed and let them cry if they wanted to.Annie said nothing, but she hushed thelittle one with tender songs.One day, as usual, it lay on its quiltwhile Annie worked. It was a terribly busymorning. She had risen at four to get thewashing out of the way before the men goton hand, and there were a dozen loaves ofbread to bake, and the meals to get, andthe milk to attend to, and the chickens andpigs to feed. So occupied was she that shenever was able to tell how long she wasgone from the baby. She only knew thatthe heat of her own body was so great thatthe blood seemed to be pounding at herears, and she staggered as she crossed theyard. But when she went at last with acup of milk to feed the little one, it lay withclenched fists and fixed eyes, and as shelifted it, a last convulsion laid it back breathless, and its heart had ceased to beat.Annie ran with it to her room, and triedsuch remedies as she had. But nothingcould keep the chill from creeping over thewasted little form, -- not even the heat ofthe day, not even the mother's agonizedembrace. Then, suddenly, Annie lookedat the clock. It was time to get the dinner.She laid the piteous tiny shape straight onthe bed, threw a sheet over it, and wentback to the weltering kitchen to cook forthose men, who came at noon and who mustbe fed -- who must be fed.When they were all seated at the table,Jim among them, and she had served them,she said, standing at the head of the table,with her hands on her hips: --"I don't suppose any of you have timeto do anything about it; but I thought youmight like to know that the baby is dead.I wouldn't think of asking you to spare thehorses, for I know they have to rest. ButI thought, if you could make out on a coldsupper, that I would go to the town for acoffin."There was satire in the voice that stungeven through the dull perceptions of thesemen, and Jim arose with a cry and went tothe room where his dead baby lay.About two months after this Annie insisted that she must go home to Illinois.Jim protested in a way."You know, I'd like to send you," hesaid; "but I don't see where the money isto come from. And since I've got thisnomination, I want to run as well as I can.My friends expect me to do my best forthem. It's a duty, you know, and nothingless, for a few men, like me, to get in thelegislature. We're going to get a railroadbill through this session that will straightenout a good many things. Be patient a littlelonger, Annie.""I want to go home," was the only replyhe got. "You must get the money, someway, for me to go home with.""I haven't paid a cent of interest yet,"he cried angrily. "I don't see what youmean by being so unreasonable!""You must get the money, some way,"she reiterated.He did not speak to her for a week, except when he was obliged to. But she didnot seem to mind; and he gave her themoney. He took her to the train in thelittle wagon that had met her when she firstcame. At the station, some women weregossiping excitedly, and Annie asked whatthey were saying."It's Mis' Dundy," they said. "She'sbeen sent to th' insane asylum at Lincoln.She's gone stark mad. All she said on theway out was, 'Th' butter won't come! Th'butter won't come!'" Then they laughed alittle -- a strange laugh; and Annie thoughtof a drinking-song she had once heard,"Here's to the next who dies."Ten days after this Jim got a letter fromher. "I am never coming back, Jim," itsaid. "It is hopeless. I don't think Iwould mind standing still to be shot downif there was any good in it. But I'm notgoing back there to work harder than anyslave for those money-loaners and the railroads. I guess they can all get along without me. And I am sure I can get alongwithout them. I do not think this will makeyou feel very bad. You haven't seemedto notice me very much lately when I'vebeen around, and I do not think you willnotice very much when I am gone. I knowwhat this means. I know I am breakingmy word when I leave you. But remember,it is not you I leave, but the soil, Jim! Iwill not be its slave any longer. If youcare to come for me here, and live anotherlife -- but no, there would be no use. Ourlove, like our toil, has been eaten up bythose rapacious acres. Let us say goodby."Jim sat all night with this letter in hishand. Sometimes he dozed heavily in hischair. But he did not go to bed; and thenext morning he hitched up his horses androde to town. He went to the bank whichheld his notes."I'll confess judgment as soon as youlike," he said. "It's all up with me."It was done as quickly as the law wouldallow. And the things in the house weresold by auction. All the farmers were therewith their wives. It made quite an outingfor them. Jim moved around impassively,and chatted, now and then, with some ofthe men about what the horses ought tobring.The auctioneer was a clever fellow. Between the putting up of the articles, he sangcomic songs, and the funnier the song, thelivelier the bidding that followed. Thehorses brought a decent price, and the machinery a disappointing one; and then, aftera delicious snatch about Nell who rode thesway-backed mare at the county fair, hegot down to the furniture, -- the furniturewhich Jim had bought when he was expecting Annie.Jim was walking around with his handsin his pockets, looking unconcerned, and,as the furniture began to go off, he cameand sat down in the midst of it. Everyone noticed his indifference. Some of themsaid that after all he couldn't have beenvery ambitious. He didn't seem to takehis failure much to heart. Every one wasconcentrating attention on the cooking-stove, when Jim leaned forward, quickly,over a little wicker work-stand.There was a bit of unfinished sewing there,and it fell out as he lifted the cover. It wasa baby's linen shirt. Jim let it lie, and thenlifted from its receptacle a silver thimble.He put it in his vest-pocket.The campaign came on shortly after this,and Jim Lancy was defeated. "I'm goingto Omaha," said he to the station-master,"and I've got just enough to buy a ticketwith. There's a kind of satisfaction in giving the last cent I have to the railroads."Two months later, a "plain drunk" wasregistered at the station in Nebraska's metropolis. When they searched him theyfound nothing in his pockets but a silverthimble, and Joe Benson, the policemanwho had brought in the "drunk," gave itto the matron, with his compliments. Butshe, when no one noticed, went softly towhere the man was sleeping, and slippedit back into his pocket, with a sigh. Forshe knew somehow -- as women do knowthings -- that he had not stolen that thimble.

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