Chapter I

"'T was a fool's notion to get tipped out of a boat anywhere," said Tim Calligan to his circle of fellow pensioners at the Dartbank poor-farm, "me that's been on the water like a bubble from the day me mother weaned me, saints rest her soul, and she as decent a woman as ever was born in County Cork."

Tim was relating the oft-told tale of his escape from drowning, a story of which they were fond, and which he delighted to tell. The old man had a fertile Celtic fancy, and his narrations were luxuriant with exuberant growth.

"So there was meself drownin' like a blind kitten in a pond,--and many 's the litter of 'em I'd sent to the cat's Purgatory by the way of that very river, saving that the Purgatory of cats there ain't any, having no souls, by the token that having nine lives they'd belike have nine souls, and being so many they'd crowd good Christian souls in Paradise,--blessings on the holy saints for previnting it.

"No more could I make me head stay out of water," Tim went on, "than if it was a stone. 'Good-by, Tim, me boy,' sez I to meself. 'Ye're gone this time,' sez I, 'and I'll miss nothing in not being at yer wake, by the token that there won't be no wake; and ef there was,' sez I, still to meself, 'there could be nothing to drink but water here in this cursed stream.' And down I went again, like a dasher in a churn. 'Holy St. Bridget,' thinks I, 'how far 'll it be to the bottom of this ondecent river. Likely it goes clean through to Chiny,' thinks I, 'and one of them bloody, onbelaving heathen 'll be grabbing me presently with his mice-eating hands. But it's better being pulled out by a heretic heathen than staying in and soaking.' With that up again I goes, like a shellaly at a fair; and it was like fire flashing in me eyes. Sez I to meself: 'That 'll be Widdy Malony's bit of a house,' sez I, spaking always in me mind because of the floods of water in me mouth. 'It'll be burning to the very ground,' sez I, 'and me missing all the fun of it. The blessed saints help the poor woman, turned out of house and home to get bite and sup for her children like a chipmunk, and every one of them taking after Dennis, and I might have married her meself long ago if they was fewer, for I'd want a ready-made family small,' sez I to meself, plunking up and down in the water like a dumpling in the broth. ''T is pitiful to think of her house burning down over her head,' sez I, 'and she never to know the man might have made her Mis' Calligan's down here drowning in plain sight of the very flames of it, and she nor nobody doing one thing to save him, praise be to the handiworks of God. Faith, and 't would be better for the both of us if she had more water and meself more fire,' sez I in me mind. And all the time 't was no fire, but just the blessed sun I'd never see again, barring I had n't got saved, and it shining and flashing in the eyes of me from the widdy's windows."

The tale was long, for it included an enumeration of all the sensations and emotions which Tim had really experienced, and all those which, in the course of long years, he had been able to imagine he might have felt. As at the poor-farm time was not an object, however, except of slaughter, the length of the narrative was its greatest recommendation.

"And with that," Tim at last ended his recital, "I felt the whole top of me head pulled off as I lay soft and easy on the bottom of the flood, and thinking nothing at all, but reflecting how soft the mud of it were and pitying Pat Donovan that he'd never get the quarter I owed him. 'That 'll be a Chany-man or the Divil, Tim, me boy,' sez I to meself; and then I made no more observes to meself at all, owing to the soul having gone out of me body. And all the time it was Bill Trafton catching me by the hair, him having dove for me just shortly after me being dead, and dragging me to the top when I could n't be moved from the bottom, and was likely to die any minute, saving that it was dead already I was. And he saved me life, by the token that the soul had gone out of me peaceful; but, Holy Mother, how'll I be telling ye the pain of its coming back! 'T was like the unwilling dragging back of a pig out of a praitie patch to get the soul of me back from the place it had gone to, and they rubbing me to show it the care they'd take of me, and coaxing it for two mortal hours."

As the tale ended, the bleared eyes of one of the auditors were attracted to a light wagon which had turned into the lane at the foot of the long slope upon which the poor-house stood.

"Somebody 's comin'," old Simeon observed deliberately. "Likely it's the new Over_seer_."

"Yes, that's him," Tim assented. "That's Dan Springer."

"I 'spected he was a-comin'," Grandsire Welsh commented, with a senile chuckle. "Huldy and Sam's been a-slickin' up things."

"Huldy and Sam," in more official language Mr. and Mrs. Dooling, were the not unworthy couple who had the poor-farm in charge.

"Wa'n't you sayin' t'other day," asked old Simeon, "thet you particular wantid to see the Over_seer_?"

"It's pining for him I am the time," Tim answered.

The old men sat silent, watching the approach of the visitor, who drove up to the hitching-post near them, and who leaped from his wagon with a briskness almost startling to the aged chorus.

"Spry," old Simeon commented. "I've seen the time, though, when I was spry too."

Springer fastened his horse, and came toward them.

"How d' do, boys?" he said cheerily. "How goes it?"

The contrast between his great hearty voice and the thin quavers in which they answered him was pathetic. He lingered a moment, and then turned to make his way into the house. Tim rose and hobbled rheumatically after him.

"Whist, Mister Springer," he called; "would ye be after waiting a wee bit till I have a word of speech with yer."

"Well, what can I do for you?" Springer asked good-naturedly. "Don't they treat you well?"

The old man took him by the arm and drew him around the corner of the house, away from the curious eyes of his companions.

"Whist!" he said, with a strange and sudden air of excitement. "Wait till I'm after telling yer. Your honor'll mind I'm after _trusting_ yer; _trusting_ yer, and ye'll no be betraying an old man. It's meself," he added, with a touch of pride at once whimsical and pathetic, "is ninety-three the day."

"Are you as old as that? Well, I'd keep your secret if you were twice as old," Springer returned, with clumsy but kindly jocoseness.

Tim raised himself until he stood almost upright.

"It's the money," he whispered, "the money I've saved for me burying."

He turned to stretch his thin, bloodless finger toward the bleak cluster of mounds on the hillside where mouldered the dead of the poor-farm.

"I'll no lie there," he said, with husky intensity. "I've scraped and scraped, and saved and saved, and it's the wee bit money I've got to pay for a spot of consecrated ground over to Tiverton. Ye'll no put me here when I'm gone! I'll no rest here! Me folks was respectable in the Old Isle, an' not unbeknowing the gentry; and there's never a one put outside consecrated ground. Ye'll promise me I'll be put in the graveyard over to Tiverton, and me got the money to pay."

Springer was as unemotional and unimaginative as a hearty, practical, well-fed man could be, but seeing the tears in the old pauper's bleared eyes, and hearing the passion of his tone, he could not but be moved. He had heard something of this before. His predecessor in office had mentioned Tim, and his twenty years' saving, but so few were the chances a pauper in Dartbank had of picking up even a penny that the hoard even of so long a time could not be large. Now and then some charitable soul had given the old man a trifle. A vague sympathy was felt for the pathetic longing to be assured of a grave in consecrated ground, even among the villagers who regarded the idea itself as rank superstition.

"It's all right, Tim," the Overseer said. "If you go off while I have the say, I'll see to it myself. If you'd be any more comfortable over in Tiverton, we'll plant you there."

"Thank yer honor kindly," Tim answered. "The Calligans has always been decent, God-fearing folks, and it's meself'd be loth to disgrace the name a-crawling up out of this unholy graveyard forby on Judgment Day, and all the world there to see, and I never could do it so sly but the O'Tools and the O'Hooligans 'd spy on me, and they always so mad with envy of the Calligans they'd be after tattling the news all over Heaven, and bringing shame to me whole kith and kin."

The Overseer laughed, and responded that if Tim had laid by the money to pay for the job, he would certainly see that the grave was made in the consecrated earth of Tiverton churchyard. Then with a brisk step he passed on to attend to the sordid affairs of his office within. The most troublesome matter was left until the last.

"As to the Trafton child," he said to Huldy and Sam, "I don't see that anything can be done. I've spoken to the Selectmen about it, and they don't think the town should be called on to pay out twenty-five dollars when here's a place for the child for nothing."

"That's just what I told Louizy," Huldy responded. "I said that's what they'd say; but Louizy 's dretful cut up."

Springer moved uneasily or impatiently in his seat, so that the old wooden chair creaked under the weight of his substantial person.

"I know she is," he said; "if I could afford it, I'd send the child to her folks myself; but I can't, and I don't see but the girl's got to go to 'Lizy Ann Betts. Perhaps she won't be so hard on her."

"Hard on her," sniffed Huldy; "she'll just kill her; that's all."

At the word a wretched-looking woman pushed into the kitchen as if she had been listening at the door. She held out before her a right hand withered and shriveled by fire.

"Oh, Mr. Springer," she broke out, tears running down her cheeks, "don't send my Nellie to be bound to that woman! She's all I've got in the world; and she never wanted till I was burned. Send her to my folks in Connecticut and they'll treat her as their own."

She sank down suddenly as if her strength failed, and sat stiff and despairing, with eyes of wild entreaty.

"It's hard, I know," Springer answered awkwardly, "but Nellie'll be near you, and she would n't be in Connecticut. 'Lizy Ann Betts ain't a bad-hearted woman. She'll do well by the child, I hope."

"She'll do well?" the mother cried shrilly, raising herself with sudden vehemence. "Did she do well by the last girl was bound to her from this farm? Did n't she kill her?"

"There, there, Louizy," interposed Huldy, "it ain't no sort of use to make a fuss. What the S'lectmen say they say, and--"

She was interrupted by a cry without, and in an instant the door was flung open by old Simeon, who with wildly waving arms and weirdly working face cried out:--

"F' th' Lord's sake! Come quicker 'n scat! Old Tim's in a fit!"