In the Midst of Alarms by Robert Barr

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"You 'tend to your own business," cried the thoroughly enraged farmer.

"I will," said Yates shortly, striding to the horses' heads. He took
them by the bits and, in spite of Bartlett's maledictions and pulling
at the lines, he drew them to one side, so that the buggy got by.

"Thank you!" cried the young man. The light and glittering carriage
rapidly disappeared up the Ridge Road.

Bartlett sat there for one moment the picture of baffled rage. Then he
threw the reins down on the backs of his patient horses, and descended.

"You take my horses by the head, do you, you good-fur-nuthin' Yank? You
do, eh? I like your cheek. Touch my horses an' me a-holdin' the lines!
Now you hear me? Your traps comes right off here on the road. You hear
me?"

"Oh, anybody within a mile can hear you."

"Kin they? Well, off comes your pesky tent."

"No, it doesn't."

"Don't it, eh? Well, then, you'll lick me fust; and that's something no
Yank ever did nor kin do."

"I'll do it with pleasure."

"Come, come," cried the professor, getting down on the road, "this has
gone far enough. Keep quiet, Yates. Now, Mr. Bartlett, don't mind it;
he means no disrespect."

"Don't you interfere. You're all right, an' I aint got nothin' ag'in
you. But I'm goin' to thrash this Yank within an inch of his life; see
if I don't. We met 'em in 1812, an' we fit 'em an' we licked 'em, an'
we can do it ag'in. I'll learn ye to take my horses by the head."

"Teach," suggested Yates tantalizingly.

Before he could properly defend himself, Bartlett sprang at him and
grasped him round the waist. Yates was something of a wrestler himself,
but his skill was of no avail on this occasion. Bartlett's right leg
became twisted around his with a steel-like grip that speedily
convinced the younger man he would have to give way or a bone would
break. He gave way accordingly, and the next thing he knew he came down
on his back with a thud that seemed to shake the universe.

"There, darn ye!" cried the triumphant farmer; "that's 1812 and
Queenstown Heights for ye. How do you like 'em?"

Yates rose to his feet with some deliberation, and slowly took off his
coat.

"Now, now, Yates," said the professor soothingly, "let it go at this.
You're not hurt, are you?" he asked anxiously, as he noticed how white
the young man was around the lips.

"Look here, Renmark; you're a sensible man. There is a time to
interfere and a time not to. This is the time not to. A certain
international element seems to have crept into this dispute. Now, you
stand aside, like a good fellow, for I don't want to have to thrash
both of you."

The professor stood aside, for he realized that, when Yates called him
by his last name, matters were serious.

"Now, old chucklehead, perhaps you would like to try that again."

"I kin do it a dozen times, if ye aint satisfied. There aint no Yank
ever raised on pumpkin pie that can stand ag'in that grapevine twist."

"Try the grapevine once more."

Bartlett proceeded more cautiously this time, for there was a look in
the young man's face he did not quite like. He took a catch-as-catch-
can attitude, and moved stealthily in a semi-circle around Yates, who
shifted his position constantly so as to keep facing his foe. At last
Bartlett sprang forward, and the next instant found himself sitting on
a piece of the rock of the country, with a thousand humming birds
buzzing in his head, while stars and the landscape around joined in a
dance together. The blow was sudden, well placed, and from the
shoulder.

"That," said Yates, standing over him, "is 1776--the Revolution--when,
to use your own phrase, we met ye, fit ye, and licked ye. How do you
like it? Now, if my advice is of any use to you, take a broader view of
history than you have done. Don't confine yourself too much to one
period. Study up the War of the Revolution a bit."

Bartlett made no reply. After sitting there for a while, until the
surrounding landscape assumed its normal condition, he arose leisurely,
without saying a word. He picked the reins from the backs of the horses
and patted the nearest animal gently. Then he mounted to his place and
drove off. The professor had taken his seat beside the driver, but
Yates, putting on his coat and picking up his cane, strode along in
front, switching off the heads of Canada thistles with his walking
stick as he proceeded.

CHAPTER IV.

Bartlett was silent for a long time, but there was evidently something
on his mind, for he communed with himself, his mutterings growing
louder and louder, until they broke the stillness; then he struck the
horses, pulled them in, and began his soliloquy over again. At last he
said abruptly to the professor:

"What's this Revolution he talked about?"

"It was the War of Independence, beginning in 1776."

"Never heard of it. Did the Yanks fight us?"

"The colonies fought with England."

"What colonies?"

"The country now called the United States."

"They fit with England, eh? Which licked?"

"The colonies won their independence."

"That means they licked us. I don't believe a word of it. 'Pears to me
I'd 'a' heard of it; fur I've lived in these parts a long time."

"It was a little before your day."

"So was 1812; but my father fit in it, an' I never heard him tell of
this Revolution. He'd 'a' known, I sh'd think. There's a nigger in the
fence somewheres."

"Well, England was rather busy at the time with the French."

"Ah, that was it, was it? I'll bet England never knew the Revolution
was a-goin' on till it was over. Old Napoleon couldn't thrash 'em, and
it don't stand to reason that the Yanks could. I thought there was some
skullduggery. Why, it took the Yanks four years to lick themselves. I
got a book at home all about Napoleon. He was a tough cuss."

The professor did not feel called upon to defend the character of
Napoleon, and so silence once more descended upon them. Bartlett seemed
a good deal disturbed by the news he had just heard of the Revolution,
and he growled to himself, while the horses suffered more than usual
from the whip and the hauling back that invariably followed the stroke.
Yates was some distance ahead, and swinging along at a great rate, when
the horses, apparently of their own accord, turned in at an open
gateway and proceeded, in their usual leisurely fashion, toward a large
barn, past a comfortable frame house with a wide veranda in front.

"This is my place," said Bartlett shortly.

"I wish you had told me a few minutes ago," replied the professor,
springing off, "so that I might have called to my friend."

"I'm not frettin' about him," said Bartlett, throwing the reins to a
young man who came out of the house.

Renmark ran to the road and shouted loudly to the distant Yates. Yates
apparently did not hear him, but something about the next house
attracted the pedestrian's attention, and after standing for a moment
and gazing toward the west he looked around and saw the professor
beckoning to him. When the two men met, Yates said:

"So we have arrived, have we? I say, Stilly, she lives in the next
house. I saw the buggy in the yard."

"She? Who?"

"Why, that good-looking girl we passed on the road. I'm going to buy
our supplies at that house, Stilly, if you have no objections. By the
way, how is my old friend 1812?"

"He doesn't seem to harbor any harsh feelings. In fact, he was more
troubled about the Revolution than about the blow you gave him."

"News to him, eh? Well, I'm glad I knocked something into his head."

"You certainly did it most unscientifically."

"How do you mean--unscientifically?"

"In the delivery of the blow. I never saw a more awkwardly delivered
undercut."

Yates looked at his friend in astonishment. How should this calm,
learned man know anything about undercuts or science in blows?

"Well, you must admit I got there just the same."

"Yes, by brute force. A sledge hammer would have done as well. But you
had such an opportunity to do it neatly and deftly, without any display
of surplus energy, that I regretted to see such an opening thrown
away."

"Heavens and earth, Stilly, this is the professor in a new light! What
do you teach in Toronto University, anyhow? The noble art of self-
defense?"

"Not exactly; but if you intend to go through Canada in this
belligerent manner, I think it would be worth your while to take a few
hints from me."

"With striking examples, I suppose. By Jove! I will, Stilly."

As the two came to the house they found Bartlett sitting in a wooden
rocking chair on the veranda, looking grimly down the road.

"What an old tyrant that man must be in his home!" said Yates. There
was no time for the professor to reply before they came within earshot.

"The old woman's setting out supper," said the farmer gruffly, that
piece of information being apparently as near as he could get toward
inviting them to share his hospitality. Yates didn't know whether it
was meant for an invitation or not, but he answered shortly:

"Thanks, we won't stay."

"Speak fur yourself, please," snarled Bartlett.

"Of course I go with my friend," said Renmark; "but we are obliged for
the invitation."

"Please yourselves."

"What's that?" cried a cheery voice from the inside of the house, as a
stout, rosy, and very good-natured-looking woman appeared at the front
door. "Won't stay? _Who_ won't stay? I'd like to see anybody leave
my house hungry when there's a meal on the table! And, young men, if
you can get a better meal anywhere on the Ridge than what I'll give
you, why, you're welcome to go there next time, but this meal you'll
have here, inside of ten minutes. Hiram, that's your fault. You always
invite a person to dinner as if you wanted to wrastle with him!"

Hiram gave a guilty start, and looked with something of mute appeal at
the two men, but said nothing.

"Never mind him," continued Mrs. Bartlett. "You're at my house; and,
whatever my neighbors may say ag'in me, I never heard anybody complain
of the lack of good victuals while I was able to do the cooking. Come
right in and wash yourselves, for the road between here and the fort is
dusty enough, even if Hiram never was taken up for fast driving.
Besides, a wash is refreshing after a hot day."

There was no denying the cordiality of this invitation, and Yates,
whose natural gallantry was at once aroused, responded with the
readiness of a courtier. Mrs. Bartlett led the way into the house; but
as Yates passed the farmer the latter cleared his throat with an
effort, and, throwing his thumb over his shoulder in the direction his
wife had taken, said in a husky whisper:

"No call to--to mention the Revolution, you know."

"Certainly not," answered Yates, with a wink that took in the
situation. "Shall we sample the jug before or after supper?"

"After, if it's all the same to you;" adding, "out in the barn."

Yates nodded, and followed his friend into the house.

The young men were shown into a bedroom of more than ordinary size, on
the upper floor. Everything about the house was of the most dainty and
scrupulous cleanliness, and an air of cheerful comfort pervaded the
place. Mrs. Bartlett was evidently a housekeeper to be proud of. Two
large pitchers of cool, soft water awaited them, and the wash, as had
been predicted, was most refreshing.

"I say," cried Yates, "it's rather cheeky to accept a man's hospitality
after knocking him down."

"It would be for most people, but I think you underestimate your cheek,
as you call it."

"Bravo, Stilly! You're blossoming out. That's repartee, that is. With
the accent on the rap, too. Never you mind; I think old 1812 and I will
get on all right after this. It doesn't seem to bother him any, so I
don't see why it should worry me. Nice motherly old lady, isn't she?"

"Who? 1812?"

"No; Mrs. 1812. I'm sorry I complimented you on your repartee. You'll
get conceited. Remember that what in the newspaper man is clever, in a
grave professor is rank flippancy. Let's go down."

The table was covered with a cloth as white and spotless as good linen
can well be. The bread was genuine homemade, a term so often misused in
the cities. It was brown as to crust, and flaky and light as to
interior. The butter, cool from the rock cellar, was of a refreshing
yellow hue. The sight of the well-loaded table was most welcome to the
eyes of hungry travelers. There was, as Yates afterward remarked,
"abundance, and plenty of it."

"Come, father!" cried Mrs. Bartlett, as the young men appeared; they
heard the rocking chair creak on the veranda in prompt answer to the
summons.

"This is my son, gentlemen," said Mrs. Bartlett, indicating the young
man who stood in a noncommittal attitude near a corner of the room. The
professor recognized him as the person who had taken charge of the
horses when his father came home. There was evidently something of his
father's demeanor about the young man, who awkwardly and silently
responded to the recognition of the strangers.

"And this is my daughter," continued the good woman. "Now, what might
your names be?"

"My name is Yates, and this is my friend Professor Renmark of T'ronto,"
pronouncing the name of the fair city in two syllables, as is, alas!
too often done. The professor bowed, and Yates cordially extended his
hand to the young woman. "How do you do, Miss Bartlett?" he said, "I am
happy to meet you."

The girl smiled very prettily, and said she hoped they had a pleasant
trip out from Fort Erie.

"Oh, we had," said Yates, looking for a moment at his host, whose eyes
were fixed on the tablecloth, and who appeared to be quite content to
let his wife run the show. "The road's a little rocky in places, but
it's very pleasant."

"Now, you sit down here, and you here," said Mrs. Bartlett; "and I do
hope you have brought good appetites with you."

The strangers took their places, and Yates had a chance to look at the
younger member of the family, which opportunity he did not let slip. It
was hard to believe that she was the daughter of so crusty a man as
Hiram Bartlett. Her cheeks were rosy, with dimples in them that
constantly came and went in her incessant efforts to keep from
laughing. Her hair, which hung about her plump shoulders, was a lovely
golden brown. Although her dress was of the cheapest material, it was
neatly cut and fitted; and her dainty white apron added that touch of
wholesome cleanliness which was so noticeable everywhere in the house.
A bit of blue ribbon at her white throat, and a pretty spring flower
just below it, completed a charming picture, which a more critical and
less susceptible man than Yates might have contemplated with pleasure.

Miss Bartlett sat smilingly at one end of the table, and her father
grimly at the other. The mother sat at the side, apparently looking on
that position as one of vantage for commanding the whole field, and
keeping her husband and her daughter both under her eye. The teapot and
cups were set before the young woman. She did not pour out the tea at
once, but seemed to be waiting instructions from her mother. That good
lady was gazing with some sternness at her husband, he vainly
endeavoring to look at the ceiling or anywhere but at her. He drew his
open hand nervously down his face, which was of unusual gravity even
for him. Finally he cast an appealing glance at his wife, who sat with
her hands folded on her lap, but her eyes were unrelenting. After a
moment's hopeless irresolution Bartlett bent his head over his plate
and murmured:

"For what we are about to receive, oh, make us truly thankful. Amen."

Mrs. Bartlett echoed the last word, having also bowed her head when she
saw surrender in the troubled eyes of her husband.

Now, it happened that Yates, who had seen nothing of this silent
struggle of the eyes, being exceedingly hungry, was making every
preparation for the energetic beginning of the meal. He had spent most
of his life in hotels and New York boarding houses, so that if he ever
knew the adage, "Grace before meat," he had forgotten it. In the midst
of his preparations came the devout words, and they came upon him as a
stupefying surprise. Although naturally a resourceful man, he was not
quick enough this time to cover his confusion. Miss Bartlett's golden
head was bowed, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Yates' look of
amazed bewilderment and his sudden halt of surprise. When all heads
were raised, the young girl's still remained where it was, while her
plump shoulders quivered. Then she covered her face with her apron, and
the silvery ripple of a laugh came like a smothered musical chime
trickling through her fingers.

"Why, _Kitty_!" cried her mother in astonishment, "whatever is the
matter with you?"

The girl could no longer restrain her mirth. "You'll have to pour out
the tea, mother!" She exclaimed, as she fled from the room.

"For the land's sake!" cried the astonished mother, rising to take her
frivolous daughter's place, "what ails the child? I don't see what
there is to laugh at."

Hiram scowled down the table, and was evidently also of the opinion
that there was no occasion for mirth. The professor was equally in the
dark.

"I am afraid, Mrs. Bartlett," said Yates, "that I am the innocent cause
of Miss Kitty's mirth. You see, madam--it's a pathetic thing to say,
but really I have had no home life. Although I attend church regularly,
of course," he added with jaunty mendacity, "I must confess that I
haven't heard grace at meals for years and years, and--well, I wasn't
just prepared for it. I have no doubt I made an exhibition of myself,
which your daughter was quick to see."

"It wasn't very polite," said Mrs. Bartlett with some asperity.

"I know that," pleaded Yates with contrition, "but I assure you it was
unintentional on my part."

"Bless the man!" cried his hostess. "I don't mean you. I mean Kitty.
But that girl never _could_ keep her face straight. She always
favored me more than her father."

This statement was not difficult to believe, for Hiram at that moment
looked as if he had never smiled in his life. He sat silent throughout
the meal, but Mrs. Bartlett talked quite enough for two.

"Well, for my part," she said, "I don't know what farming's coming to!
Henry Howard and Margaret drove past here this afternoon as proud as
Punch in their new covered buggy. Things is very different from what
they was when I was a girl. Then a farmer's daughter had to work. Now
Margaret's took her diploma at the ladies' college, and Arthur he's
begun at the university, and Henry's sporting round in a new buggy.
They have a piano there, with the organ moved out into the back room."

"The whole Howard lot's a stuck-up set," muttered the farmer.

But Mrs. Bartlett wouldn't have that. Any detraction that was necessary
she felt competent to supply, without help from the nominal head of the
house.

"No, I don't go so far as to say that. Neither would you, Hiram, if you
hadn't lost your lawsuit about the line fence; and served you right,
too, for it wouldn't have been begun if I had been at home at the time.
Not but what Margaret's a good housekeeper, for she wouldn't be her
mother's daughter if she wasn't that; but it does seem to me a queer
way to raise farmers' children, and I only hope they can keep it up.
There were no pianos nor French and German in _my_ young days."

"You ought to hear her play! My lands!" cried young Bartlett, who spoke
for the first time. His admiration for her accomplishment evidently
went beyond his powers of expression.

Bartlett himself did not relish the turn the conversation had taken,
and he looked somewhat uneasily at the two strangers. The professor's
countenance was open and frank, and he was listening with respectful
interest to Mrs. Bartlett's talk. Yates bent over his plate with
flushed face, and confined himself strictly to the business in hand.

"I am glad," said the professor innocently to Yates, "that you made the
young lady's acquaintance. I must ask you for an introduction."

For once in his life Yates had nothing to say, but he looked at his
friend with an expression that was not kindly. The latter, in answer to
Mrs. Bartlett's inquiries, told how they had passed Miss Howard on the
road, and how Yates, with his usual kindness of heart, had offered the
young woman the hospitalities of the hay rack. Two persons at the table
were much relieved when the talk turned to the tent. It was young Hiram
who brought about this boon. He was interested in the tent, and he
wanted to know. Two things seemed to bother the boy: First, he was
anxious to learn what diabolical cause had been at work to induce two
apparently sane men to give up the comforts of home and live in this
exposed manner, if they were not compelled to do so. Second, he desired
to find out why people who had the privilege of living in large cities
came of their own accord into the uninteresting country, anyhow. Even
when explanations were offered, the problem seemed still beyond him.

After the meal they all adjourned to the veranda, where the air was
cool and the view extensive. Mrs. Bartlett would not hear of the young
men pitching the tent that night. "Goodness knows, you will have enough
of it, with the rain and the mosquitoes. We have plenty of room here,
and you will have one comfortable night on the Ridge, at any rate. Then
in the morning you can find a place in the woods to suit you, and my
boy will take an ax and cut stakes for you, and help to put up your
precious tent. Only remember that when it rains you are to come to the
house, or you will catch your deaths with cold and rheumatism. It will
be very nice till the novelty wears off; then you are quite welcome to
the front rooms upstairs, and Hiram can take the tent back to Erie the
first time he goes to town."

Mrs. Bartlett had a way of taking things for granted. It never seemed
to occur to her that any of her rulings might be questioned. Hiram sat
gazing silently at the road, as if all this was no affair of his.

Yates had refused a chair, and sat on the edge of the veranda, with his
back against one of the pillars, in such a position that he might,
without turning his head, look through the open doorway into the room.
where Miss Bartlett was busily but silently clearing away the tea
things. The young man caught fleeting glimpses of her as she moved
airily about her work. He drew a cigar from his case, cut off the end
with his knife, and lit a match on the sole of his boot, doing this
with an easy automatic familiarity that required no attention on his
part; all of which aroused the respectful envy of young Hiram, who sat
on a wooden chair, leaning forward, eagerly watching the man from New
York.

"Have a cigar?" said Yates, offering the case to young Hiram.

"No, no; thank you," gasped the boy, aghast at the reckless audacity of
the proposal.

"What's that?" cried Mrs. Bartlett. Although she was talking volubly to
the professor, her maternal vigilance never even nodded, much less
slept. "A cigar? Not likely! I'll say this for my husband and my boy:
that, whatever else they may have done, they have never smoked nor
touched a drop of liquor since I've known them, and, please God, they
never will."

"Oh, I guess it wouldn't hurt them," said Yates, with a lack of tact
that was not habitual. He fell several degrees in the estimation of his
hostess.

"Hurt 'em?" cried Mrs. Bartlett indignantly. "I guess it won't get a
chance to." She turned to the professor, who was a good listener--
respectful and deferential, with little to say for himself. She rocked
gently to and fro as she talked.

Her husband sat unbendingly silent, in a sphinxlike attitude that gave
no outward indication of his mental uneasiness. He was thinking
gloomily that it would be just his luck to meet Mrs. Bartlett
unexpectedly in the streets of Fort Erie on one of those rare occasions
when he was enjoying the pleasures of sin for a season. He had the most
pessimistic forebodings of what the future might have in store for him.
Sometimes, when neighbors or customers "treated" him in the village,
and he felt he had taken all the whisky that cloves would conceal, he
took a five-cent cigar instead of a drink. He did not particularly like
the smoking of it, but there was a certain devil-may-care recklessness
in going down the street with a lighted cigar in his teeth, which had
all the more fascination for him because of its manifest danger. He
felt at these times that he was going the pace, and that it is well our
women do not know of all the wickedness there is in this world. He did
not fear that any neighbor might tell his wife, for there were depths
to which no person could convince Mrs. Bartlett he would descend. But
he thought with horror of some combination of circumstances that might
bring his wife to town unknown to him on a day when he indulged. He
pictured, with a shudder, meeting her unexpectedly on the uncertain
plank sidewalk of Fort Erie, he smoking a cigar. When this nightmare
presented itself to him, he resolved never to touch a cigar again; but
he well knew that the best resolutions fade away if a man is excited
with two or three glasses of liquor.

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