One of Ours | Page 4

prosperous bachelor. He must have fancied her for the same reason he
liked his son Bayliss, because she was so different. There was this to be
said for Nat Wheeler, that he liked every sort of human creature; he
liked good people and honest people, and he liked rascals and
hypocrites almost to the point of loving them. If he heard that a
neighbour had played a sharp trick or done something particularly
mean, he was sure to drive over to see the man at once, as if he hadn't
hitherto appreciated him.
There was a large, loafing dignity about Claude's father. He liked to
provoke others to uncouth laughter, but he never laughed immoderately
himself. In telling stories about him, people often tried to imitate his
smooth, senatorial voice, robust but never loud. Even when he was
hilariously delighted by anything,--as when poor Mahailey, undressing
in the dark on a summer night, sat down on the sticky fly-paper,--he
was not boisterous. He was a jolly, easy-going father, indeed, for a boy
who was not thin-skinned.

II
Claude and his mules rattled into Frankfort just as the calliope went
screaming down Main street at the head of the circus parade. Getting
rid of his disagreeable freight and his uncongenial companions as soon
as possible, he elbowed his way along the crowded sidewalk, looking
for some of the neighbour boys. Mr. Wheeler was standing on the
Farmer's Bank corner, towering a head above the throng, chaffing with
a little hunchback who was setting up a shell-game. To avoid his father,
Claude turned and went in to his brother's store. The two big show
windows were full of country children, their mothers standing behind
them to watch the parade. Bayliss was seated in the little glass cage
where he did his writing and bookkeeping. He nodded at Claude from
his desk.
"Hello," said Claude, bustling in as if he were in a great hurry. "Have
you seen Ernest Havel? I thought I might find him in here."

Bayliss swung round in his swivel chair to return a plough catalogue to
the shelf. "What would he be in here for? Better look for him in the
saloon." Nobody could put meaner insinuations into a slow, dry remark
than Bayliss.
Claude's cheeks flamed with anger. As he turned away, he noticed
something unusual about his brother's face, but he wasn't going to give
him the satisfaction of asking him how he had got a black eye. Ernest
Havel was a Bohemian, and he usually drank a glass of beer when he
came to town; but he was sober and thoughtful beyond the wont of
young men. From Bayliss' drawl one might have supposed that the boy
was a drunken loafer.
At that very moment Claude saw his friend on the other side of the
street, following the wagon of trained dogs that brought up the rear of
the procession. He ran across, through a crowd of shouting youngsters,
and caught Ernest by the arm.
"Hello, where are you off to?"
"I'm going to eat my lunch before show-time. I left my wagon out by
the pumping station, on the creek. What about you?"
"I've got no program. Can I go along?"
Ernest smiled. "I expect. I've got enough lunch for two."
"Yes, I know. You always have. I'll join you later."
Claude would have liked to take Ernest to the hotel for dinner. He had
more than enough money in his pockets; and his father was a rich
farmer. In the Wheeler family a new thrasher or a new automobile was
ordered without a question, but it was considered extravagant to go to a
hotel for dinner. If his father or Bayliss heard that he had been
there-and Bayliss heard everything they would say he was putting on
airs, and would get back at him. He tried to excuse his cowardice to
himself by saying that he was dirty and smelled of the hides; but in his
heart he knew that he did not ask Ernest to go to the hotel with him

because he had been so brought up that it would be difficult for him to
do this simple thing. He made some purchases at the fruit stand and the
cigar counter, and then hurried out along the dusty road toward the
pumping station. Ernest's wagon was standing under the shade of some
willow trees, on a little sandy bottom half enclosed by a loop of the
creek which curved like a horseshoe. Claude threw himself on the sand
beside the stream and wiped the dust from his hot face. He felt he had
now closed the door on his disagreeable morning.
Ernest produced his lunch basket.
"I got a couple bottles of beer cooling in the creek," he said. "I knew
you