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Calico Cat, The (version 2)

<h2>VI</h2> Peaslee, where were you when that shot was fired?" asked Farnsworth, and as he spoke he turned and looked toward Solomon, whose seat was some three or four places to his left, on the same side of the table. Had the question not been uttered, it would have died upon his lips, so much surprised was he at what he saw. Mr. Peaslee, white and trembling with some strong emotion, had his hands upon the table and was raising himself, slowly and painfully, to his feet. He rolled his eyes, which looked bigger and more pathetic than ever behind his glasses, toward Farnsworth at the sound of his voice, but the young man knew instinctively that Solomon, moved by some strong idea of his own, had not grasped the question. "Gentlemen," Mr. Peaslee began, in shaky tones, "I guess I got a word to say afore ye find a true bill agin that little feller. He's as peaceable a boy as ever I saw, and I guess I can't let him stay all bolted and barred into no jail, when it don't need anythin' but my say-so to get him out. Ye see, gentlemen,"—Solomon paused, moistened his dry mouth, and cast a timorous look over the puzzled faces of the jurymen,—"ye see, 't was me that shot Lamoury." Not a sound came from the grand jury; the members sat and stared at him in blank wonder, hardly able to credit their ears. Paige, the state's attorney, who was making some notes at the time, held his pen for a good half-minute part way between his paper and the inkstand while he gazed in astonishment at Peaslee. To have a grand juror, a sober, respectable man, rise in the jury-room and confess that he is the real offender in a case under consideration, is not usual. The surprise was absolute. For Farnsworth, it was more than a surprise; it was a relief. Then his betrothed had been right; Jim had not fired the shot! He felt a glow of admiration for Nancy's sure intuition and loyalty to her pupil. He rejoiced that Jim was cleared for her sake and for the boy's. Insensibly he had grown more and more interested in Jim and attached to him. Now—everything was explained. Everything? No, Jim's strange activity in concealing the evidences of the shot, his queer reserve when questioned as to what he knew—these seemed more perplexing than ever. Farnsworth, hoping for light upon these points, settled back in his chair to listen. Mr. Peaslee had more to say. "It kinder goes agin the grain," Solomon resumed, with a weary, deprecatory smile, "to own up you've been actin' like a fool, but I guess I got to do it. "This was the way on 't: I stepped over to Ed'ards's jest to talk over matters and things. Well, I couldn't seem to raise anybody to the front of the house, so I kinder slid into the boy's room to see if there wasn't somebody out back. There wa'n't. There didn't seem to be anybody to home. "Now, gentlemen, seems as though you'd see how 't was when I tell ye. There's an old white and yaller cat, with a kinder sassy patch over her eye,"—Mr. Peaslee's meek voice here took on a trace of heat,—"that's been a-pesterin' the life out o' me goin' on a year. I guess ye know how 't is—one of them pesky, yowlin', chicken-stealin', rusty old nuisances that hain't any sociability to 'em, anyhow. "Well, there she was a-settin', comfortable as a hot punkin pie, and lookin' as if she owned the place. And there was the boy's gun right there handy. The cat riled me so, I jest loaded her up. 'T wa'n't in human natur' not to, now was it? 'T wa'n't nothin' but bird shot, so I sorter stuck in a marble. It couldn't do no harm, and it might kinder help a leetle. And I just fired her off. I didn't expect to hit any French Canadian; I didn't know there was any of the critters round. "Then when I see a feller fall out of the bushes I was scared, now I tell ye. Here I was, member of the grand jury, and everything, and it didn't somehow seem right and fittin' for no member of the grand jury to be fillin' up a feller human bein' with bird shot an' marbles. I guess I didn't think much what I was a-doin' of, no-how. 'T any rate, I jest sneaked off home, and then I jest let things slip along and slide along till here I be. I guess if a true bill's got to be found agin any one, it's got to be found agin me." And Mr. Peaslee sank huddled and hopeless into his chair. His fellow members were for a moment silent. But soon this tale of a cat, bird shot, and an unexpected Canadian began to disclose a comic aspect; the plight of poor, respectable Mr. Peaslee, in all the fresh honors of his jurorship, began to show a ludicrous side; their own position as grave men seeing what they thought a serious offense change, as by magic, into a farcical accident, bit by bit revealed its humor. Sampson, the foreman, glanced at Paige, the state's attorney. The young man's face wore an odd expression. Their eyes met, and Sampson's mouth began to twitch. Albion Small, who was "consid'able of a joker," suddenly choked. Farnsworth, having revealed to him in a flash the significance of the harmonica "with harp attachment," gave way and laughed outright. Smiles appeared on faces all round the table; and as the comicality of the whole affair more and more struck upon their astonished minds, the smiles became a general laugh, the laugh a roar. And this mirth had so good-humored a note that Solomon, taking heart, looked about the table with a sheepish grin. But his heart sank and his grin vanished when his eyes fell upon Abijah Keith. For Abijah did not smile. He sat grim as fate, stern disapproval of all this levity expressed in every deep fold of his wrinkled old countenance. A formidable person was Abijah. He had a great brush of white hair, which stood up fiercely from his narrow forehead; a high, arched nose like the beak of a hawk, on which rested a pair of huge round spectacles; a mouth like a straight line inclosed between a great parenthesis of leathery wrinkles. Up from under his old-fashioned stock, round a chin like a paving-stone, curled an aggressive, white, wiry beard, and his blue eyes were steel-bright and hard. "Can't see what you're cackling so for!" he exclaimed, his shrill accents full of contempt. "Actin' like a passel of hens! There's a man shot, ain't they? Somebody shot him, didn't they? He"—and Abijah pointed a knotted, skinny, hard old finger at the shrinking Solomon—"he shot him, didn't he? Ser'us business, I call it. Guess the grand jury's got suthin' to say to it, hain't they? Cat? Cat's foot, I say. Likely story, likely story. Don't believe a word on 't." Solomon dared to steal a look, and was not reassured to see in the jurymen's faces doubt replacing mirth. Then Hiram Hopkins's hearty voice, ringing with opposition, struck upon his delighted ear. He remembered Hiram's dislike for the cantankerous Keith. Here perhaps was a defender. "Oh, come, Mr. Keith! Oh, come now!" he heard Hopkins exclaim. "What's the use of raising a rumpus? It wasn't nothing but bird shot. Folks don't go murdering folks with bird shot." "Don't care if 't was bird shot!" came Abijah's snapping tones. "Don't care if 't was pin-heads; principle's the same." "It is, it is!" admitted Solomon, in his soul. "Well," said Hiram, with a common sense in which Mr. Peaslee took comfort, "the practical effect is mighty different. Gentlemen," he added to the jurors, "I can't see that we've got any call to go any further with this. Peaslee was just shooting at a cat. I don't see the sense of taking up the time of the court and makin' expense for any such foolishness. I say we'd better dismiss young Edwards's case, and Peaslee's along with it. It's such fool doings, I think we'd better, if only to keep folks from laughing at the grand jury." Solomon's heart was in his mouth. Would the others take this view—or Keith's? "Oily talk, dretful oily talk!" came Abijah's fierce pipe. "Don't take any stock in 't. Shot him, didn't he? Grand juror—what difference does that make? If they ain't fit, weed 'em out—weed 'em out!" "Fit?" said Hiram. "It took some spunk to get up there and tell just what a fool he'd been, didn't—" "Humph!" Abijah interrupted, with a snort. "Had to, didn't he? Farnsworth asked him where he was, didn't he? Had to squirm out somehow, didn't he? Got about as much spine as a taller candle with the wick drawed out, accordin' to his own showin'. Better weed him out, better weed him out! Humph!" Poor Mr. Peaslee sank still lower in his chair; his head fell still lower on his chest. They were taking away from him even the credit of voluntary confession. Why had Farnsworth asked that question? In casting doubt upon his one brave deed fate seemed to him to have done its worst. "He'd got up before I put the question," said Farnsworth. He wished to be just. But he was indignant with Peaslee. After his first laughter, his thoughts had dwelt upon the trouble that Solomon had brought upon the innocent Jim, "just to save his own hide, the old—skee-zicks!" he exclaimed to himself. After all, what did he know about Peaslee? If the man had merely shot at a cat, why under the sun should he not have said so at once, and saved all this bother? The more he thought, the more indignant he grew—and the more doubtful. He did not notice at all the look of timid gratitude which Mr. Peaslee cast in his direction. "Course he was up before you spoke!" Solomon was further gratified to hear Hopkins declare, in his big, hearty voice. "And I think a man who owns up fair and square just when it's hardest to has got spine enough to hold him together, anyhow." "Up before ye asked him!" Abijah turned on Farnsworth. "Up for what? Tell me that, will ye?" And Solomon, listening anxiously for Farnsworth's answer, was depressed to hear him give merely a good-humored laugh at Uncle Abijah's thrust. "Mr. Peaslee," asked Sampson, so unexpectedly that Solomon jumped, "didn't you say something about a marble?" "Yes," said Mr. Peaslee, gloomily. "Fit the bore, did it?" continued the foreman. "Slick," answered Mr. Peaslee, with the brevity of despair. "If that marble fitted the bore," said Albion Small, while Sampson nodded assent, "it's my opinion it might do considerable damage." His opinion had weight, for Small was a hunter of repute. Recovered from their amusement, the grand jurors had become gradually impressed with the idea that Mr. Peaslee's confession still left some awkward questions unanswered. If the matter were so simple as he said, why had he kept silent so long? The jurymen came from all over the rather large county, and although they all had some knowledge of the principal men of Ellmington, and although such of them as had dealings at its bank had met Mr. Peaslee, none of them knew him well. He was a newcomer at the village, and when at his farm had not had a wide acquaintance. They looked to Farnsworth as his fellow townsman to speak for him; but Farnsworth said nothing, and seemed preoccupied and doubtful. The inference was that he shared their perplexity. They felt that Keith, for all his "cantankerousness," might be right. Solomon could draw no comfort from their faces. All this while Paige had been playing with his watch-chain and watching Abijah, whose character he appreciated, with discreet amusement; but he found himself in essential agreement with the peppery old fellow. "Ask the state's attorney, why don't ye?" put in Keith, impatiently. "He'll tell ye I've got the rights on 't. Ain't afraid, be ye?" Sampson smiled. "Mr. State's Attorney," he said, turning to Paige, "I guess perhaps you'd better give us the law of this." "Well, gentlemen," said Paige, "as a matter of law, Mr. Keith would seem to be right," and at the word Solomon's spirits sank to new depths. "Didn't I tell ye?" said Abijah, triumphantly. Had the state's attorney said that he was wrong, the old man would have called him a popinjay to his face. Abijah's exclamation was not deference to legal knowledge; it was merely quick seizure of a tactical point. "Lamoury was shot," Paige went on, with a little smile at Keith's interruption, "and by his own statement, Mr. Peaslee shot him. On his own admission, his gun was dangerously loaded. Although a boy, a neighbor's son, was charged, through his act, with a serious offense against the laws, he made no confession. And when, at last, he did speak, it is at least open to debate whether he did it of his own volition, or because he was forced to do so by the embarrassing question put to him by one of your number. I don't impugn his veracity, but I am bound to remark that he is an interested witness. All this is a question of fact for you to consider. "I think you should know a little more. To determine if there was any motive, you need to know if there was any bad blood between Mr. Peaslee and Lamoury; to find an indictment to fit the case you need to know how badly Lamoury is hurt. I think you should have Lamoury here. Cross-questioning him, and perhaps Mr. Peaslee,"—Solomon shivered,—"should establish whether the shot was accidental, as the accused says, or intentional, as Lamoury contends. I'll have the complainant here to-morrow, if it's a possible thing. As there's no formal charge—as yet—against Mr. Peaslee, I think you may properly postpone until then the question of entering a complaint or making an arrest, if necessary,"—Solomon shivered again,—"and of his proper holding for appearance before the court. Meanwhile, I suggest that you dispose of the case against young Edwards, and then adjourn. Mr. Peaslee," he added significantly, "will of course be present to-morrow morning." "Sartain, sartain," answered poor Solomon, tremulously. It was already late, and when the grand jury had formally dismissed the complaint against Jim, the hour was so advanced that adjournment was taken for the day. When Mr. Peaslee left the court house no one spoke to him, and he walked slowly home, full of the worst forebodings. Why had he put in that marble? Relieved of his burden of anxiety and remorse in regard to Jim, he began to think more definitely than he had done heretofore of the possibility of serious harm to Lamoury. It was dreadful to think that he might have badly wounded an inoffensive man. Was Lamoury much hurt? What would happen to a marble in a shotgun, anyhow? Would he be arrested? Would his case get to trial? Could he, without a single witness, prove that it was an accident? The sinister figure of Jake Hibbard rose before him, and made him feel helpless and frightened. The future looked black. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus.jpg" title="He turned to face the storm." height-obs="400" width-obs="592" alt="He turned to face the storm." /> <h5>HE TURNED TO FACE THE STORM</h5></div> "But I done right," he tried to console himself by saying. "I done right." Better late than never, to be sure; but if genuine comfort in a good deed is sought, it is best to act at once. Mr. Peaslee could feel but small satisfaction in his tardy confession. Moreover, he must now face his wife. As he turned with reluctant feet into his own yard he fairly shrank in anticipation under the sharp hail of her biting words. To postpone a little the inevitable, to gather strength somewhat to meet the shock, he passed the kitchen porch and went on toward the barn. Seating himself upon an upturned pail, he stayed there a long while, still as a statue, while he chewed the cud of bitter reflection. After a while, at the barn door there was a familiar flash of white and yellow. Looking wearily up he saw the great, green eyes of the Calico Cat fastened upon him in fierce distrust. She had one foot uplifted as if she did not know whether it was safe to put it down, and in her mouth, pendent, was a Calico Kitten. Mr. Peaslee, silent and immovable, watched her with apathetic eyes. Finally, as if assured he was not dangerous, she put down her foot and disappeared with soft and cushioned tread into the dim recesses of the barn. Yet a little while and she again appeared in the doorway with a second duplicate of herself. Again an interval, and she brought a third. "Well," said Solomon to himself, his spirit quite crushed, "I guess she ain't bringing no more than belong to me by rights." Nevertheless, he could not endure to see any others. He went desperately into the house, where he found his wife fuming over his delay. "I guess I may as well tell ye, first as last," he said, in a sort of stubborn despair. "'T was me that shot Lamoury." "You!" exclaimed his wife, dropping her knife and fork, and looking at him as if she thought he had taken leave of his senses. "I guess I'm the feller," he averred, with queer, pathetic humor. And turning a patient, rounded back to his wife's expected indignation, he told his story while he nervously washed at the sink, and fumblingly dried his face and hands in the coarse roller towel. He made these operations last as long as his confession. Then, at an end of his resources, he turned to face the storm. Mrs. Peaslee simply looked at him. She struggled to speak, but she found herself in the predicament of one who has used up all ammunition on the skirmish-line, and comes helpless to the battle. She simply could think of nothing adequate to say. She stared at her husband while he stared out of the window. Then she gave it up. "Draw up your chair!" she said sharply. "I guess ye got to eat, whatever ye be!" <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/chap_7.jpg" title="Cat drinking from saucer." height-obs="221" width-obs="276" alt="Cat drinking from saucer." /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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